


Down The Waterfall

by semi_sweet



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Halsey, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Ass-eating, Attempt at humour, Bandom exchange, Cheating???, Death, Drunk Sex, I am terrible at tagging, Kidfic, M/M, Peterick, Rimming, Superpowers, Wingfic, also known as dadtrick, butt stuff, flower symbolism, is this identity porn?, mentions of depression, past depression, past trauma, patrick is dumb as shit, sigle dad!patrick, superhero!pete, tattoo artist!patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12975375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Patrick needs something to change; even after putting himself together, his relationships are in ruins, the only thing he really has is tattooing. Pete needs a tattoo, something symbolic, something intricate, something BEAUTIFUL. But there's history behind Patrick's own tattoos that aren't only skin-deep and Pete? Well... It's true what they say about not all heroes wearing capes.





	Down The Waterfall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DuendeVerde4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuendeVerde4/gifts).



> Merry Christmas! Kinda. Sorry it isn't Frerard, I know you asked for that mainly but I can literally only write Peterick and I tried to let them have a little appearance.  
> I hope I've remembered to tag everything! Anyway, uh, I hope you like it.... wingfic, kidfic, angst and kinda based on your prompt? I hope. Yeah, I tried.
> 
> Thanks to my amazing beta whom I can't name yet, that's the rules. And I'd give you my tumblr for you lot to contact me but, again, rules. Hope you enjoy.

Contrary to popular belief, the worst people to tattoo were – in fact – not white girls. Whilst there was a line of them that wanted little infinity symbols on the insides of their wrists or incredibly cringe-worthy script on their ribs or bird silhouettes on their shoulders, they were nice and uncomplicated, came in with a flash or some image they’d pulled off Google images, acted like getting a tiny bit of ink was a big deal and left again, often with an okay tip.

No, the worst customers were hipster-dudes. Specifically, hipster-dudes who also had flash-tattoos, but liked to pretend the different colour or the change of dimensions made it unique and edgy. They did dumb shit like take pain-killers so their overly-manly selves wouldn’t be whining and flinching more than the white girls did and it was annoying as fuck when the tattoo was bleeding so much you could barely see what you were doing. They were also the ones to raise their eyebrows at the lack of tattoos their artist displayed. Patrick always found himself having to explain that while, yes, tattooing other people was his job, he himself was incredibly picky when it came to what he wanted etched into his skin forever. He didn’t judge people who went and got tattooed pretty much once a month, not at all, better for business, but it just wasn’t for him.

So when Patrick saw the man he’d spoken to on the phone a week prior stroll into his parlour, hair slicked back into a man-bun, shirt sleeves and denim jacket rolled up to reveal heavily tattooed forearms and fucking Timberlands on his feet because  _ of fucking course _ , he really had to restrain to not roll his eyes. Instead, he did his utmost to offer his retail-smile. “Hello, Mister…”  _ oh shit _ .

“Pete.” Pete held out his hand.

“Hi, Pete. Please, take a seat.” He indicated the blue, fake-leather armchair set up around a coffee table next to the window. Patrick did the actual tattooing in the back in a room with windows facing out into a courtyard rather than onto a busy street. This had stemmed from his own dislike towards anybody being able to watch him whilst he was getting inked, it was such a very personal and intimate thing, he didn’t want to have to share it with judgmental strangers because of huge store-front windows selling his privacy to the public. But here, in front of the large windows that had images of his and his employees’ previous work in them and the name  _ Mania Ink _ stuck on in big, dark purple script, he had good light for sketching.

Patrick did all his own designs. That was one of the conditions. Oh, sure, he’d take flashes, but if the client wanted him to do it rather than Gabe or Travie, he was going to add his own flare to it. Usually that was okay. If not, well, he’d established himself well, somebody would come in who wanted an original design, instead. He settled down, his drawing pad balanced on his knee as he waited for Pete to give him instructions. He knew what it was, vaguely. A black backpiece. Admittedly, Patrick preferred colour, but he could do blackwork, as well.

He had just opened his mouth to start rattling through his list of questions when Pete jumped in. “I want a backpiece. Whole thing by one artist. I checked you out, I like your work, but there will be a…. certain complication, do you think you can handle that? Concerning scarring.” Taken aback by the sudden and a little too direct interruption, Patrick blinked dumbfoundedly, his mouth still hanging open a little as he stared at his customer. “Uh… yeah… sure, I… I’ve done scars before.” the image of snarled, uneven, broken, damaged skin flashed before his mind’s eye, some heroic, some tragic, some symbols of empowerment and survival, some lines of guilt gracing broken skin of broken people. It was something of an honour to be asked to turn damage into something beautiful.

Pete held his gaze for a second, as though he was assessing how trustworthy his selected artist was. Patrick wanted to squirm and look away, but forced himself to stare right back into brown eyes. If he spoke now, he’d have won this silent battle for the upper hand. He did his best to lean back in his own chair casually, chewing the end of his pencil. “What’s the piece gonna be?”

“Blackwork.” Patrick nodded, “yes, you mentioned, how about the image? Have you brought any reference work? And the exact placement” Most people brought reference work. Patrick suspected it was because they didn’t trust him enough to come up with something they’d love himself, as if he hadn’t been the one to design the tattoos on his Instagram that were the reason for them showing up on his doorstep in the first place! Usually, the only skins who let him do his own thing were regulars, so it came as somewhat of a surprise when Pete shook his head. “I want something religious. But, like, dark. I’m the sorta guy who wants to believe, but doesn’t have enough faith for it. You know what I mean?” Oh, Patrick knew what he meant. He was already sketching the pair of wings that would decorate Pete’s shoulder blades, as dark as he could manage and all the way down to his lower back. “Any elements you really wanna see in there?”

“Just one. But I think…” Pete craned his neck to be able to glance at what Patrick was doing. He hated being watched when he was drawing, but most people wanted to micro-manage, so he’d learnt to bite his tongue and stay silent, “you already have it. The wings.” He couldn’t help but let a proud little smile twist the corners of his mouth. Patrick was good at what he did and he knew it. “Mmh, I think I’m in safe hands with you”, Pete added, almost as an afterthought.

Patrick would never hesitate to turn up the stereo the second he walked into his flat. It wasn’t like he was still mourning the life he’d had or anything, he just hated the silence to much. He’d then dump his bag in the corner and go to prepare whatever meal he forced himself to make. Not because he hated cooking, on the contrary, he enjoyed it very much! It just always seemed so dumb cooking elaborate meals for one when he knew rice drenched in soy sauce would technically do the job. But it was a good thing to occupy himself with, it gave him something to do and it was certainly more healthy if he fried himself some vegetables to dump on the rice.

Cooking and tattooing, those were probably the things Patrick prided himself the most on, his two real talents. Sure, there was other stuff he enjoyed, music probably being the most notable, but seeing as he’d been so caught up in his art, he’d never bothered pursuing it, really. he could play some guitar and had a drum kit in the spare bedroom, but it was very much a hobby. Of course, that didn’t diminish its value to him in any way, it was just… a different kind.

Another thing he enjoyed greatly was binge-watching reality TV. Specifically: Contests. Currently on screen? I’m a celebrity, of course. And yes, it was weird that he enjoyed watching people eat bugs and worms and other gross shit whilst he was enjoying his dinner, but it kind of just made him value his own food more. It wasn’t that dumb if you thought about it. And seeing Z-list celebrities desperately trying to save their burning careers made him realize he wasn’t a total failure, which was fun.

He would then do the washing up. Yes, immediately. It had taken him a long time to get this particular step of his routine going properly, but it was essential if he didn’t want to drown in dirty dishes. Usually, this bit of the evening was accompanied by some Randy Newman, simply because he lived alone and nobody could stop him.

Next on the list was the shower. Patrick liked his showers to be hot enough he could feel the dirt burning out of his pores and turning his skin read as the glass cubicle steamed up. On the rare occasions where he was freshly tattooed, Patrick would somewhat suffer below a lukewarm spray of water that wasn’t nearly enough to get him clean, in his opinion. He would then clean the shower and dry his hair, all the while examining the pieces of art scattered on his body he never really got to see any other time. Aside from the Malevich on his right forearm, all of Patrick’s tattoos were usually covered by his clothing and only a very select group of people had ever got to see them. There was the Tabono on his left hip and the Hyacinth that had once been blue but was now purple covering most of the left side of his back and the lineart of the olive branch on the inside of his left thigh. And the black dove that spread across his chest a constant reminder of-

Patrick shook his head firmly, reaching for his toothbrush rather than memories he tried so hard to forget and yet didn’t want to.

He curled up in bed with his book and a mug of tea – unsweetened, obviously, he’d just cleaned his teeth! – and did his utmost to make his ADHD-addled brain focus on the black squiggles. Usually, he’d manage about 20 pages. It was a lot for him, he’d really worked on himself and being able to get through 1-2 books a month was quite an achievement. When he’d reached the 20 th page, he put the paperback down on the little nightstand beside his bed and reached for the drawer. Taking meds was truly something he hated, but he was so much worse without them. He was  _ unbearable _ without them, to himself as much as to everyone else around him. Still. He hated them.

But at least they let him sleep.

Chicago was… not your ordinary city. Not anymore. Sure, it had its tower blocks and its family homes and its areas of commerce, decay and gentrification, completed with a bit of systematic racism and a terrible mid-western drawl, but it also had something that very distinctively made it  _ not _ Kansas City or Omaha. And it wasn’t the lake-effect snows.

See, the thing is, Chicago had… a guardian angel. I know, I know, this sounds like complete and utter drivel, something derived from the mind of a teenage boy in his basement wishing the world were a little more exciting than it was. Well, in truth, that’s kind of what happened. You see, Pete Wentz never quite fit in. not that he was a total outsider, he had friends (or something comparable) and he played sports, but he was – at heart – an emo-kid, meaning he wrote poetry and cried over music. All those things boys aren’t supposed to do. At first, he’d tried to fit in but it turned him into such a weird shape he felt even more excluded than ever. So, he did the opposite. Pete shamelessly indulged in his passion for art and pretty things to the point where he cared for little else. He became the inconspicuous kid at the back of the class that would occasionally have a bit of a manic episode but was easy enough to deal with.

The problem with that? It was boring. If there was one thing Pete had promised himself, it was that he would never, ever be boring. So, the first thing he did was to start kissing boys. At first, it had been something of a sport, a running-gag, a bit of casual fun. Until Michael Way sucked his dick in junior year and the realization smacked him in the balls:  _ Oh shit, I’m gay!  _ That was how he quickly became the local gay dude or, as some of his more tolerant classmates liked to call him, the emo fag. They were just words, he didn’t care. In fact, it became boring.

Pete would probably never know what set it off, why then, he knew the X-Men, of course, and had always figured it was something related to that, all stories had a true core, after all. Problem being, he couldn’t for the life of him think what had changed, what he had felt, whom he had met, where he had been that made the wings sprout from his back.

Oh, yes, Pete Wentz had wings. Should clarify that. Actually, most of the time, they were scars down his back, two long, vertical lines down his shoulder blades marking where feathers emerged when he needed them to. And when they did, oh boy. His wings were fucking  _ huge _ , as in 15 feet from tip to tip huge. Granted, that proved as somewhat of a problem if he needed them indoors, but when folded up properly, they didn’t get in the way too much. They were curved and black like the night, until the wind rustled them up to reveal the silver underside of the feathers. He liked them. They made him special.

Honestly, he wanted to use them for good, but whenever he got them out to scare off robbers or the occasional violent drunk, there was always an element of worry. What if somebody saw? What if people in white jackets showed up in the middle of the night, ready to cart him to the nearest lab. Like he said, he knew the X-Men. Mostly, he just had them spread out on the couch beside him as he tucked into Chinese takeaway and binged the latest Netflix drama. Yes, exciting life. He wanted to be Batman or Superman, he really did, but… well, arts and crafts had never been his strong point and he doubted the glasses trick would work in real life. So far, his disguise was simple: During the day, he was your average, annoying, Starbucks-drinking hipster who cursed capitalism by writing blogs on his MacBook, at night, he went full-on emo. Fringe, eyeliner, the whole deal. And so far, nobody had recognized him. Not that he’d encountered too many people in his Hell’s Angel form, but still… you did see quite a few people when you worked in a coffee shop, because, yes, if Pete was going to be the hipster, he was going to commit. It was lucky he’d never bumped into any of them with his wings hanging out.

The only people he’d entrusted with this secret were his two neighbours, the traditional, friendly, old, married couple that had two kids and a dog. Well, they were gay, but otherwise, yes, placative for the good, American family. He wasn’t sure why he’d told Frank and Gerard, why them of all people, but it was probably down to the fact that they were so close to his own apartment, should there ever be an emergency involving his wings and the ceiling fan, the one he’d really wanted taken down but BUILDING REGULATIONS, they could rush to his aid. So far, thankfully, he hadn’t had to make use of their knowledge.

And before you ask, yes, Gerard had almost fainted at the sight of what he described as a ‘real life comic’. It might be important to mention – at this point – that Gerard drew said comics for a living and he may or may not have drawn from some real-life inspiration whilst working on his newest project  _ Deathwing _ , which was the most generic name ever and Pete was 90% certain somebody had already claimed that for their own little hero.

There was… how to put this… another aspect of Pete’s powers. What I mean by  _ guardian angel _ is not simply a dude with wings but, well… in truth, Pete himself did not know the full extent of his abilities, just how far he could reach, just how much he could change somebody’s life or the whole world with just one quick wave of his hand – for better or for worse. The reason he did not know was that there was one very essential piece of the puzzle missing… or there had been for a very, very long time. Things only started to slide into place the day he decided to get a tattoo. More specifically, his backpiece.

He’d been planning it for a long time, the longest, really, ever since he’d seen the two, gross scars twisting down his back like thorns. The problem had been that he didn’t know what he wanted. Yes, he knew the kind of theme he was going to go with, but no specific image, no illustration to show off, no reference material, not even something in his head he could describe, nothing. Most artists enjoyed designing their own tattoos based off a client’s directions, he knew that, he wasn’t dumb, but none of them had seemed… right. It had been on a September morning he’d come across Patrick. He’d been checking the Instagram tag, casually scrolling through posts by artists, possibly with the idea of wanting to add to his sleeve in mind. Amongst the colourful lettering and traditional tattoos and watercolour tattoos and the odd bit of tribal stuff that all kind of looked like variations on the same thing that had been done before a hundred-and-one times, however, had been an image that caught his attention.

It was odd, it had something illustrative about it, though in a style that could almost be called surreal, all blackwork with the exception of streaks of white ink interrupting the image. He’d clicked on the profile  _ maniainkorporated _ , yes, very clever name. It turned out to be the profile of the dude running the parlour, though all he could make out of him from the pictures was that he was blonde and very,  _ very _ talented.

He hadn’t reckoned on him being  _ cute _ as well…

He also hadn’t reckoned on his hands being so fucking cold. His fingers were like icicles down his back as they carefully stroked along the scars, as though they had to know every inch of them before they could work their magic. “You think you can handle it?” Pete threw the question over his shoulder when he heard Patrick let out a long sigh. He just about managed to catch a glimpse of his artist, mouth pulled to the side in a frown as he tried to figure out what to do with the deformed piece of skin being offered to him. “Might have to compromise on some bits, but… yeah, I can handle it.” A hand was splayed out between Pete’s shoulder blades, making him flinch under the coldness of it before he settled into the touch. It was light, scanning the skin it was going to mark. There was something incredibly possessive about tattooing, something so intimate and private. Even if the artist never asked what it meant, what it was for, why this one, why here, why now? It didn’t matter. They’d created it. They’d seen every muscle of your body flinch and tighten and relax and scream below your skin as the needle dug in, carving eternity into your body. They knew.

“When do you want to get this started?” Pete sat up when Patrick’s hand left him and he heard the sound of footsteps becoming more distant. He quickly pulled his shirt and jacket on as he followed Patrick back through to the front where he was standing behind the reception desk, black horn-rimmed glasses precariously balanced on his nose as he frowned down into a calendar. “Whenever you’re free. Next possible date.” He watched carefully as Patrick flicked through the pages, his hands smoothing over them the way they had over his skin, fingers splayed and gently resting on the calendar. “I can crowbar you in in three weeks for linework,” Patrick muttered, more to himself than to anybody else. “Yeah, sure, sounds good.” The blonde nodded and scrawled something illegible down into the slot that had just been booked for him. “October 4 th 4 p. m., yeah?” Pete was handed a little, black card. One side had white letters pressed onto it

Patrick Stump

Mania Ink

And the address. The back was white, the time and date of their appointment scrawled down in biro ink. He popped it in his wallet so he wouldn’t forget… actually, there wasn’t much chance of that happening, but better safe than sorry. “See you round!” Pete called over his shoulder as he left the shop. He got a muffled “bye!” through a mouthful of muffin back.

Weekends were… hard. In a way. Patrick didn’t get much time with her and he wanted to cherish every second of the time he had, but that wasn’t always easy. It started with the way she never ran towards him, never initiated the hugs, never spoke unless he asked questions and it ended with her excitement when the time came for him to drop her back with her mother, back  _ home _ . She never called his little flat home, no matter how much work he might put into the spare room he’d filled with toys and games, no matter how much time and effort he invested in keeping her happy, no matter how hard he tried to always find the perfect gift for birthdays and Christmases and even in-between if he happened to stumble upon something nice.

So all he could do was try his best and not think too hard about the fact that maybe, just maybe, she was only his daughter by blood.

“Hey, sweetie, how are you doing?” Despite the half-hearted smile he got whenever it was him waiting at the gates outside school on Friday rather than his ex-wife, Patrick’s own was genuine. He ruffled the 8-year-old’s blonde hair the way he always did and she tried to tidy it with a grimace on her face the way she always did. “How was school” Patrick took her tiny hand in his as they headed towards the nearest entrance to the L. “Boring. I don’t like math, it’s too hard.” Patrick couldn’t help her there, he was no mathematician himself. “How did your music test go? Was it piano?” Lisa was a natural when it came to playing the piano, there was nothing she was better at. “Clarinet. And it was okay, I guess. I haven’t got my grade yet.” She was good at the clarinet, too. “Ah, I’m sure you did really well!”

“What’s for lunch?” Lisa asked once she was sitting on a much too big seat on the train, he little legs dangling. Patrick was standing next to her, holding onto one of the vertical banisters because he was too short to be able to reach the ones overhead properly. “Uh, how do tortillas sound to you? With that nice vegetable filling you like?” She nodded, seemingly content with his answer. “Sounds good.” Patrick couldn’t help but smile to himself. He spoiled her a lot. “Do you have to go to work this weekend?”

“No, I took the next few days off, I’m all yours. We could go to the science museum, if you want? I figured that would be cool a-“

“No thanks. I was there yesterday with school and it was pretty boring.” Patrick frowned. “But it’s all interactive? You get to control the weather! That’s cool!” All Lisa did was pull her nose at him, “only babies would find that cool. I’m too big for it. And I don’t understand the science, it makes me feel stupid, I don’t like it.”

“Hey, no, don’t say that, you’re not stupid…” the rejection hurt a little. He saw her so little – once a month for a weekend – he barely knew her. He didn’t know her friends or what she liked to do with them or her favourite animal or the colour of her bedroom. All things he  _ should _ know, he should.

At least she always seemed happy when she was eating his food. He’d already got the confirmation that he was considerably better at cooking than her mother and yes, he was keeping score. “How was your birthday party? Sorry I couldn’t be there…” he had missed four of her birthdays. Half. That was half. “it was cool. Had some friends around and we played games.”

“Did you get my present?” He still didn’t trust Rachel to actually hand over the gifts and money he sent their daughter. “Yes, I did, I enjoyed it a lot, thank you.” It was so polite and clipped and proper. Patrick wondered if she always spoke like this. Was it normal for 8-year-olds to speak like this? “Anything you would like to do today? We could go to the lake, or maybe the pictures? How does that sound to you? We could watch that 3D meatball movie they’ve been advertising, that would be cool, yeah?” Lisa shrugged. “Yes, that would be fun. We can do that.”

She went to her room after finishing her meal. Patrick stood in the kitchen, washing up in silence as he mourned the fact that he might have lost more than just one daughter.

Pete hated getting tattooed. It hurt like a bitch all the time but he couldn’t move at all. Usually, he’d stick his headphones on and turn the volume up as high as he could and pretend he was screaming along with Axl Rose to cope, but he’d forgotten those, so he was subjected to the  _ zzzzzzzzzzzz _ of the gun and Patrick’s constant humming. He would. Not. Shut. Up. Part of Pete felt he should be attempting small talk here, but speaking to strangers was basically the source of all his nightmares and as long as Patrick wasn’t initiating conversation, well… it wasn’t happening. Although the silence wasn’t exactly pleasant, either.

“So, umh… how… how’s it going back there?” Pete made a tentative attempt at conversation. “Fine. We can take a break if you want, just let me finish the wing.” Pete didn’t want to be that guy, didn’t want to have to take a break, he was a tough alpha male, he could bear the pain! Except his knees hurt from the stretched position they were in and he kinda wanted a drink if he was perfectly honest. Oh, and his back had immediately yelled  _ YES _ at the offer. “Oh, yeah, sure, if you think it would be good.”

“I asked you. I could do this for hours, trust me.” Great. Thank you. “Yeah, then… let’s. when you can, that is.” Patrick hummed his reply, “’bout five more minutes, yeah?” Five minutes?? Five more minutes of searing pain??? Pete really should work out less and eat more for that nice layer of protective fat that made tattooing more bearable.

“Done. You can sit up. 10 minutes, yeah?” Pete nodded, trying his best not to show just how much of a sissy he was when it came to this. “Thanks…” Patrick’s smile was warm and kind. “Wanna take a look? Obviously nowhere near done, but the wings are finished and I took the liberty to do the outline of the piece whilst I was at it. There’s two mirrors over there”, Patrick indicated the corner of the room, where one was fixed to the wall and the other stood opposite. Pete wandered over to them, feeling a little like he was being watched, but he didn’t want to turn around to check. When he finally stood between the two mirrors, he couldn’t help but gasp. It was true, it wasn’t anywhere near done, but the clearly defined edges of the feathers and the uneven line at the bottom marking the edge of the piece were already enough for him to know that, yes, he might just have found his perfect artist. “That bad is it?” He knew Patrick was joking, or he hoped it, anyway, but none the less, he felt the need to let him know how he felt. “It’s perfect!” A chuckle rang through to his ears, light and comforting. “If you like  _ that _ , wait until I’ve finished.”

“I don’t think I can!” Pete didn’t put his shirt on as he settled on one of the chairs opposite Patrick, who was clutching a bottle of water between his hands, solely because he knew it wasn’t smart and he should leave it as exposed as he could until it had healed. “Does it hurt a lot?” Pete shrugged, or tried to, at least, but it turned into more of a wince. Patrick smiled at him and  _ fuck _ his heart for fluttering a little. “It’s fine, I, I whined like a total, a total bitch when I had my back done, right? Actually, I was, I was a total bitch during all of my tattoos. Come to think of it.” He giggled nervously. Pete found himself smiling. “How many do you have?” The way Patrick raised his gaze to meet Pete’s, eyebrows pulled up and eyes wide, made him think that maybe it was just a little too personal a thing to be asking. “If… if you don’t mind.” Thankfully, he shook his head. “It’s fine. Five, I have five. I know, not a lot for a tattoo artist… I just, I’m very picky with what… with what goes on my body.” He shrugged it off, as though he was embarrassed by it, as though he  _ had _ to explain why he chose to decorate his skin the way he had. Pete wondered how many people had looked at him in judgement when they realized he wasn’t as covered as most people in his line of work were. “It’s fine, I’m not judging. It’s something very personal and… well, none of my business, really.” A grateful little smile spread across Patrick’s face.

“Can I ask who did your right sleeve?” Pete shrugged, “friend of mine down in LA. Why?” His features twisted into a frown not dissimilar to the one he’d worn when he’d been drawing the template and – Pete liked to think – carving marks into honey-golden skin. “It would look better with a starker contrast. I’d suggest colour, but I think that’s just my personal preference…” Without warning, he got up and swooped out of the room and back into the reception area. When he came back, he was scribbling something down in a note book. Patrick tore out the page and handed it to Pete. “Friend of mine. He’s good at re-touching, if you wanna… wanna check him out, maybe he could do it for you. Only if you want, of course, I don’t… I’m not implying that…”

“It’s fine”, Pete interrupted his embarrassed babbling, “I appreciate the advice, thank you.” He shoved the note into the back pocket of his black jeans. “Umh… ready to carry on?”

Ugh. More pain. Pete let out a heavy sigh and nodded. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Patrick would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy Pete. Most of the time, he kind of hated skins trying to make small talk, it was awkward, pointless and just distracted him from his work, but with Pete… he looked forward to his appointments, something he only did with very few clients, namely Joe Trohman, Andy Hurley and Brendon Urie. Oh, and, of course, Pete Wentz. And no, it hadn’t passed him by just how fucking pretty the guy was, but he couldn’t dwell on that. He had a job to do.

When he wasn’t tattooing or fussing over his daughter, Patrick made music. Or he tried to, anyway. He liked to think that, had he not been an artist, he’d have been a musician, maybe in a little pop punk band or doing some Bowie-come-Prince-come-MJ solo thing with a guitar or two. He did write, of course, he wasn’t particularly good, but he enjoyed it and it filled his time, so what did it matter? Not like anybody would ever hear it, anyway, sometimes you’ve just got to create for yourself.

At that moment, Patrick had his guitar balanced in his lap and was strumming along to a tune he had in his head but wouldn’t quite come out yet, TV babbling away in the background. He wasn’t paying it any attention, he just liked the sound of someone else’s voice, so Patrick wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen to look up just in that moment. At first, he thought it was a movie or maybe some new TV show he’d – once again – missed the first few episodes of, but once he noticed that this, was, in fact, the news, he put his guitar down and stared at the screen, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

_ “Reports are it’s been out there helping victims for the last hour, flying into the flames and dragging out people stuck on the top floors. How exactly the creature remains unharmed is unclear, however, it does not display any signs of ill-intent.” _

A burning tower block, regular flats housing regular people, not unlike Patrick, ablaze, trapping and killing people by the dozens. But it wasn’t that horror that seemed to be enthralling people. Behind the reporter, Patrick could clearly make out the  _ creature _ they were talking about, swooping between the upper levels and the ground, picking out people and bringing them to safety. It clearly had huge wings, massive, in fact, bigger than any bird Patrick knew of. But this wasn’t a bird. Much as he told himself, much as he tried to convince himself of it, the thing on the TV clearly wasn’t a bird.

_ “People are already claiming it is a gift from God, describing the being as an angel, though, of course, many argue that religion is out of the picture here and it is simply a form of life as yet unknown to man. Scientists are already making hypotheses, but as yet, we don’t have enough information to go by.” _

Patrick was sure the creature wasn’t an angel. Okay, look, he wasn’t religious, he didn’t believe in a god or in celestial beings of any kind. He did, however, believe that there was more to the universe than humans knew. So maybe, just maybe, aliens weren’t green little men from mars, maybe they were winged humans.

Or maybe it was all a hoax, which, to be perfectly honest, made a lot more sense once he was cuddled up in bed with a clear mind. The world was a crazy place.

A hoax actually seemed to be the only possible answer to all his questions once he was awake. Either that or he’d literally dreamed the entire thing. On his way to work, nobody spoke of it, nobody mentioned any angel, there weren’t any radio reports, nothing on TV or in the paper or even on social media. Jesus Christ, Patrick knew the meds sometimes made his brain a bit drowsy, but how many had he taken yesterday?

It wasn’t a special day, some first-time clients, a lot of regulars of the sort that just sat in silence and let Patrick do his job, the ones that wanted his talent, not his company. He didn’t mind that. The highlight of his day was the teenage girl who came in with her friend to get a tiny little image of a beetle on her ankle and nearly collapsed because of it. Of course, Patrick never, ever made fun of them, he distinctly remembered getting his first tattoo – the Malevich – and how fucking much it had hurt, even if it was in a spot that was, as he had since then learned, relatively harmless. Besides, he didn’t think very highly of snobs, especially when it came to art, and everybody had to make their own experience when it came to getting tattoos. At least she hadn’t done something dumb like take painkillers.

He wasn’t expecting visitors that evening, so it took him by surprise when Ashley showed up, completely out of the blue, just as he was closing the shop. Gabe had gone home already and Travie was cleaning up in the back whilst Patrick was closing off the till when the door chimed. “Sorry, we just cl-“ His face cracked into a grin when he saw his friend. “Ashley! I haven’t seen you in ages, come here!” He pulled his friend into a tight embrace, patting her on the back for good measure. “Hey there, Stumpy. How’s things?”

“Oh, y’know, as per… lots of drawing, lots of buzzing… how’ve you been?” She didn’t answer his question, evidently burning to get to the reason for her visit, “been sending me clients again, I see.” Oh, yes! “Pete contacted you, then?” She nodded, “about his right sleeve, yeah? Said you’d sent him about re-touching and colouring.” Colouring? Patrick couldn’t help but blush a little at the fact that his advice had been taken. “I like it a lot, very… emo.” Mh, there was something ‘emo’ about the Nightmare Before Christmas, if only because it was about a Skeleton. “He’s a good guy, seemed very taken with you.” Patrick could feel himself redden even more. “With me?”

“Looks like the feeling’s mutual, eh?” She winked at him and slapped his shoulder playfully. Ashley was only 20, making her 8 years younger than him, but she’d been tattooing people since god knows when and was, frankly, one of the best. Patrick trusted her so much he’d let her re-colour the hyacinth on his back about a year ago. And re-colouring was hard. Ashley was the best at correcting, that was why he’d sent Pete her way, rather than making that attempt himself. He was too much of a coward for that.

“He’s a client, Ashley. A- a nice client, but a client. He pays me, I stamp ink into his skin, we, we go our own ways.”

“And whilst he lays out on the bench for you, half-naked and tense, you try very hard to focus solely on your needle, yes, I know. Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.” He hated how red he was. And how right she was. Pete was just a pretty face, like so many others, he’d got over this before, he’d get over it again. So what if he was a hopeless romantic? Couldn’t help that. “Just wanted to see whether there was some matchmaking to be done here, because you know me, Stumpy, I never fail.” With a tap to her nose, she turned and left. And Patrick hated himself for hoping that she was right.

“Stop squirming, I’m gonna slip.” Pete clenched his jaw. “I am  _ trying _ .”

“Try harder.” Ugh. Spine. The worst part. Patrick was colouring in the melting cross that was – unfortunately for Pete – right in the middle of his back over his vertebrae. Pain zone. Fun times. He was trying  _ very _ hard to keep still. “Oh my God, Pete!” the buzzing stopped for a minute. “I really need you to stop moving, I nearly went outside the damn line! Stop being such a child or, or I’m gonna give you something to bite down on!”

“I’m gonna bite down on something if you don’t stop bullying me.” Welp. He hoped Patrick didn’t get the underlying meaning of the words that had slipped out of his mouth. “Uh, you what? Did you, did you just threaten to bite my dick off?” Well. If he was going to put it that way… “No, I, uh… just said I’ll bite into… something… nothing specific.”

“Sounded like a threat to me.” The buzz filled the room again. Pete was glad that nobody else was in the room with them at that moment, the two other guys who worked here both out on their breaks. Ashley’s words of encouragement were ringing in Pete’s brain, he just… needed to get them out of his mouth… “I, uh… would never bite your dick off, Patrick.” What the fuck? Literally how was he gonna score with lines like that? “I mean, I, mh… like you too much. For that.” He didn’t get a reply. He pictured Patrick, lines of concentration drawn across his face and tongue poking out between his lips and he just wanted to look, but… “I said keep still! Christ on a bike!” Pete whined in protest, but did his best to relax nonetheless.  _ Just pretend you‘re somewhere else _ , he tried to convince himself  _ pretend his hands aren‘t gloved and that he isn‘t digging into your skin with a sharp needle covered in ink that may or may not increase your risk of getting cancer _ . Needless to say, it only worked to a degree. 

“What‘s your favourite colour?“ he blurted out between gritted teeth because he needed some form of distraction and conversation would just have to do. „Orange“, came the reply without hesitation. “Orange?“ Pete didn‘t know anybody whose favourite colour was orange. “Orange. Like, a warm sunset orange. I like that.“ Fair enough. “Do you have any orange tattoos?“ He really didn‘t know how far he could push the questions about Patrick's tattoos. “No. Most of them are just black.“ Most? Three at least, then. The only one Pete had seen was the weird one on his arm that was some piece of modern art and the hint of something black poking out from below the collar of his t-shirt. “Is the other one blue, too?“ He wasn‘t sure if he imagined the sharp intake of breath coupled with an especially sharp sting. There was a long pause in which Pete was pretty certain he‘d just fucked up big-time. “How do you… do you know I have another one? Coloured?“ Pete was about to shrug but remembered he wasn‘t supposed to be moving in the last second, “educated guess.“ 

“No… no the other one isn‘t… it was, for a… for a while, but…“ he cleared his throat “it‘s purple.“ Pete decided he should probably stop with the tattoo questions.

“How far are you?“ 

“God, you‘ve asked me three times already, you‘re worse than my daughter.“ Daughter? Pete‘s ears perked up. “You have a daughter?“ The buzzing stopped. He wasn‘t sure if that meant he could turn and look, but he decided against it. There was something different about Patrick‘s voice when he spoke again. “Yes. She‘s… yes.“ 

The air between them felt awkward. “And you… tattoo her?“ Pete yelped a little at the teasing slap against his arm. “No you idiot, she‘s 8! I mean when we‘re driving somewhere or something. Every second thing from her mouth is ‚are we there yet‘, it‘s insane! All she does is nag at me!“ Pete felt a warm smile twist the corners of his mouth. “I took her to the cinema two weeks ago and she spent the whole movie telling me to shut up because I kept ‚making noises‘ her words not mine, but if I see something cute in 3D, I‘m gonna squeal at it, I‘m an emotional little guy, try and stop me!“ 

“You really love her, don‘t you?“ For a while, it was just Pete, Patrick and the buzz of the machine and after a moment, Pete realized that question was going to remain unanswered because any reply to it would be redundant. He already knew what it was.

Patrick didn‘t speak for the remaining 15 minutes and when he was done, he wordlessly got up and walked through the heavy curtains to the front of the shop. Pete was slightly scared he‘d said something wrong, something to anger or upset him, that he‘d crossed a line, but when he followed his artist, he saw him standing behind the wooden desk, smiling kindly. He named his price, Pete handed over his card and a generous tip. “We‘re gonna need one more appointment, I think. Two more hours and I should be done.“ Pete‘s heart fell a little at the realization that they were almost done. “Sure! When?“ Patrick pushed his glasses back up his nose and carefully studied “I‘m really full for a bit… and then I‘m off for the week before Christmas… you free on December 27th?“ Right after Christmas? Definitely! Pete was definitely down for that! It was like a fucking gift. But that did mean he wouldn‘t see Patrick for so long… too long… “Deal.“ Patrick smiled and scribbled something in his calendar. “As long as you, uh… I have tickets to my friend‘s concert and… and nobody to go with. So… 8.30? Room 1520?“ Patrick was looking at him with raised eyebrows and  _ fuck _ Pete hoped Ashley hadn‘t misunderstood the situation. “I mean… if you want… or whatever…“ 

“Yeah, sure… see you there.“ Pete‘s heart skipped a beat like he was a fucking teenager asking the cute girl to homecoming. “Awesome! See you later!“ He skipped out of the door with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

  
  
  


Patrick unbuttoned his shirt for the third time, hoping he‘d manage to do it up correctly on the fourth go. His fingers were shaking like crazy, it was ridiculous. Then again, he  _ had  _ just been asked out by the cute guy. Ugh, fuck Ashley and her stupid schemes, honestly. He looked such an unassuming mess, small and pale and… well, at least he‘s lost quite a bit of weight in the last year. He had no idea if the skinny black jeans leather jacket and fedora were appropriate at all, but he wasn‘t going to dress for Pete‘s hipster friends, he wasn‘t  _ that _ desperate to impress just yet. It would have to do.

Patrick lived three stops away. He hopped off the L and wandered through the streets, slowly because he was way too fucking early and didn‘t wanna be standing around too much in the cold. Pete surely wouldn‘t be there yet, it was 8:04, by the time he arrived, it would be 8:10. Suited him right for always being paranoid about trains being on time. 

But when he arrived at 8:12, Pete was already waiting outside. Patrick felt all warm when he saw him. “Hey!“ he was pulled into a close embrace he really didn‘t wanna break. “You‘re here early.“ Pete remarked. He was wearing jeans not dissimilar to Patrick‘s, a pair of sneakers and no stupid man-bun, meaning his hair was loosely slicked back and Patrick decided that he really needed to have it cut. That wasn‘t his area of expertise though. He looked gorgeous, Patrick could cry. „”ou can talk! How long have you been waiting for?“ 

“For you? Years and years, Pattycakes!“ He pulled a face at the nickname, but it just made Pete laugh. „For real though, only a minute or two, you‘re fine, don‘t worry.“

“Okay… good… wanna… wanna go in?“

It was hot and stuffy and cramped and the two of them definitely weren‘t the target demographic here. Patrick tried to ignore how old he felt, even if he was 98% certain he didn‘t look it, thank you, baby fat. The band was good though. Thee drinks were better. The man next to him was the best. Pete was funny, he really made Patrick laugh with his dumb comments that should probably be annoying rather than endearing and his fucking adorable goat-laugh and  _ ugh _ . He just blamed the alcohol and the fact that he hadn‘t had sex in over a year for the fact that Pete looked like a total snack in a button-down and a battered leather jacket. And for the way he reached out to touch his hair. Pete smiled at him. “How do you get it to stay all sticky-upy?“ Patrick yelled over the music. “Yours is! When it‘s not under a hat!“ Pete yelled back. It took Patrick a second to think about that. “Oh yeah!“ Woops. “You‘re drunk!“ smart observation there, Pete. “So are you!“ Pete looked down at his shirt, a damp patch still sitting where he‘d spilled some of his last drink. “So I am!“ Funny! Pete was so funny! Patrick was laughing again. “I really like you, Patrick!“ He was pretty sure that made him blush. He was also pretty sure the alcohol was already colouring him so red nobody would notice. Maybe the girly giggle gave it away. “I really like you, too, Pete!“ 

Patrick wasn‘t quite sure what the sudden warmth on his cheeks was at first, but once his brain had caught up, he identified two hands holding his face. “Can I kiss you!“ Could he what? Why was he asking. Patrick didn‘t answer, just surged forward and was met by soft lips. Soft, puckered, beautiful lips. It was too many teeth and too much spit and not enough gentle touches or playful tongues, but Patrick didn‘t care. It felt nice, it felt good, Pete was pretty and friendly and smart and his chest was fluttering like crazy when a hand wrapped around the back of his neck. 

  
  


“Pete!“ Pete‘s head turned towards the hissing. Slowly, very slowly. Gerard was grinning at him from behind the door of his own flat. “You need help, knock on the wall the way we arranged, yeah?“ Pete nodded. Slowly. Everything was slow. “And, uh… use a condom. Good luck! Have fun!“ 

“Thanks… you“ by the time his brain had put the words together, the scruffy brown hair had disappeared into its flat again.

Patrick was sitting on the couch, gazing around the modest little apartment like he had never seen anything like it. It was so fucking cute.  _ He  _ was so fucking cute. Pete couldn‘t help but pull him in for another kiss. “Mmh, bedroom?“ he was pretty certain the head-wobble attempted by the little guy was supposed to resemble a nod. There were no protests as he followed into the bedroom, was pinned to the wall and kissed until he was gasping for breath like a fucking cliché, no complaint as his clothes were worked off and he did the same in return, as he was guided over to the bed and laid down, legs spread enough for Pete to fit between them. His dick was already hard and he whined pathetically when Pete took it between his lips, not keen on wasting any time, he was way too fucking horny for that. “Mmmh, Pete, yes, fuck yes”, slipped through Patrick’s lips in a cry as he flicked his tongue over the slit, gathering precome already pooling over it. “Fuck fuck, please, fuck, Pete, please fuck me already!” Yes, Pete agreed with that, it sounded good, like that was something he wanted. Remembering Gerard’s words, he fished around in his nightstand drawer for a rogue condom. He rolled it on, praying he was just sober enough to have done it properly, and lined himself up. And fuck, just being pressed up against Patrick’s ass was nice. There was quite a lot of resistance first, quite a lot of Pete pushing up and Patrick pushing down and pressure, pressure, pressure until… Pete fell forward with a low groan when he finally breached his body. It was so good. He didn’t hesitate to tell Patrick that, more than once, as he slowly started thrusting. He seemed to be doing reasonably well considering they were both pretty drunk, Patrick was squirming and cursing beneath him, especially at first, and sharp nails dug into his shoulders and there was so much pain but in a good way and fuck, fuck… it was way too good. 

  
  
  


Sunlight bled through beneath the black out blinds. Pete wasn’t quite sure if that was what woke him, it couldn’t have been his alarm, it was a Saturday and he didn’t work on Saturdays. It didn’t take long for the headache to register, a throbbing pain at the base of his skull that clearly confirmed, yep, he’d drunk too much. It took Pete a while to catch on, to remember just why he’d been drunk, where he’d been, who he’d been there with, what he had done, but when the memories - dusty and blurred as they may be - from last night hit him, a smile crept onto his face. Not so much the thought of having fucked his insanely cute tattoo artist, but the thought that, if he turned around, just reached out an arm, anything, he would find a warm body next to his. He wasn’t sure what he would do, admittedly, this situation could turn rather awkward rather quickly and  _ maybe _ he should have waited until he’d actually got his tattoo done, but hey. No risk no gain. 

Pete decided against reaching out for fear of waking a sleeping Patrick. It was a sight he was pretty certain he wanted to see before it was disrupted, so he did his best to shift as unnoticably as he could onto his side, inching over in tiny movements until he was facing the- 

The empty bed. 

Patrick was gone and Pete felt his heart drop. Fuck, why had he left? When had he left? Had he crept out last night after Pete had passed out? Or in the early hours after he’d woken up full of regret? Pete knew he shouldn’t go noseying, partly because maybe Patrick really had had enough of him after last night’s escapade, partly because he didn’t want to seem too eager, but, fuck… he was. 

The Salon was - thankfully - open on Saturdays. Pete walked in, causing the bell over the door to jingle. He didn’t even have to wait for a minute, meaning he didn’t get to drink in nearly as many as the pictured decorating the walls as he wanted to. They were imaged of tattoos, obviously, separated into three sections. It wasn’t hard to find Patrick’s, to Pete, it stood out the most, bright colours and bold lines twisted into surreal images of things that seemed too familiar but so very bizarre at the same time. “Can I help you?” 

The guy that had emerged from behind the heavy, red curtain was tall, very tall, black and pretty heavily tattooed. So basically the polar opposite of what Pete had been expecting. “Oh, umh, I’m looking for Patrick…” The guy shook his head. “He’s working right now.” And yes, Pete could hear a faint buzzing in the other room. “If you need an appointment, I can book you one, but he’s pretty full u-”

“Until after Christmas, yes, I know.” He felt a bit rude for interrupting. “This is about… something personal. Tell him it’s Pete. about last night. I can wait.” The realization that crossed the guy’s face was somewhat intimidating to Pete, though more because it was - as far as he could tell -unfounded rather than hateful or malicious. “Oh my God, are you the reason he literally cannot sit down today?” If Pete were one to blush, he’d be blushing. Instead, he was just mouthing nothing at the man who was holding out a hand to him with a big grin. He took it. “Travie. I work here. With Patrick. We’re friends.”    
“Pete. I, uh… am getting my back piece done… by him…” Travie nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I remember! You were whining like a right bitch last time. Don’t worry about it, you should have heard him when I did his chest!” Pete’s ears piqued at the hint of conversational topic. He was way too invested in Patrick’s tattoos for it to be a casual interest. He wasn’t sure why, he figured it must be because he wanted to know what art the artist treasured. “Chest?” 

“Yeah, you know, the b-” Travie drew his finger across his own shirt, “wait, you  _ are _ the guy who fucked him last night, yeah?” Uh… what a terribly subtle question. Pete nodded shyly. “You didn’t see his tattoos?” No, no he hadn’t seen them, or at least he’d forgotten about them, and he regretted that more than he regretted most things he’d fucked up in his life. “I was… a little tipsy.”  _ Blind drunk.  _ “Oh man”, Travie was shaking his head in amused disbelief, “just a heads up, he’d pissy as fuck today, don’t take that personally, please, he’s like this the morning after. The day after… sometimes the week… believe me, Gabe and I are more than glad that he’s not usually the one-night-stand typa guy.” 

Well, that was promising. Pete sat awkwardly on the couch Travie had shown him to as he waited for the tiny blond to emerge. He was on his own, the three artists were all tattooing in the back and- no, wait, somebody else had made an appearance. Kind of. Pete’s head swiveled around almost of its own accord when he heard the rather grumpy-sounding “Saporta get the  _ fuck _ back in here or I’m firing you!” just in time to catch a long face, a cheeky grin and dark hair. Saporta. The third guy. He scanned the walls in search of his work and, ah, yes, there. ‘Gabe’. He seemed to walk the fine line between Patrick’s weird surrealist old school thing he had going on with the bold lines and even bolder colours (Pete maybe should have considered the fact he didn’t seem to do much blackwork before getting this tattoo done but whatever) and Travie’s ultra realism. Pete would be enthralled by Gabe’s use of palettes, had he not seen the way his own artist seemed to speak in the language of colours, the way he whipped them up and spread them out, vibrant but soft and never afraid to make it glaringly intense or subtly faded, the difference between a bucket of paint and a breath of colour both natural to him. But yes, Gabe’s wall was beautiful. Travie was a talented guy, realism just wasn’t Pete’s thing, he preferred to look over Saporta’s collection including, but not limited to, a white tiger, a faceless boy, a crying chandelier, a blue hyacinth, a treble clef curling around a yellow violin and the night sky that felt more real than anything could ever look and, fuck, Pete really should book something with him someday. 

He was so caught up in pretty pictures he didn’t register the second person in the room until they were flopping onto the couch opposite him, not without a wince and a frustrated groan, obviously. And yes, Pete might have felt a little proud because of it but so what? He couldn’t help it! The opening joke, however, might not have been wise. “Rough night?” If looks could kill, Pete would have been stone fucking cold and six feet under before the second was over. “You could at least have used lube if you weren’t gonna prep me you piece of total and utter shit.” Ah. Pete felt himself redden, just a little. “I, uh… didn’t?” because hey, he really didn’t remember and if it was so, then yeah, he could kinda understand the apprehension in Patrick’s voice. “ _ No you dipshit, you fucking- _ ” he took a steadying breath and closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, calm, I’m calm. I’m calm and you’re a total bag of massive dicks.” And yes, Pete could make a joke about massive dicks and assholes and Patrick’s but he wasn’t going to, okay? “I’m sorry dude, I’m sorry, I really am, I was fucking wasted and I probably sh-”

A dismissive hand cut him off. Was Patrick a bit of a drama queen, maybe? “Yeah, whatever, doesn’t matter. Why are you here?” Pete shrugged “because you weren’t in my bed this morning and I wanted to check that you’re… that we’re okay.” There was an unconvinced grunt before the reply came. “I wasn’t in your bed because it was, like, 9:30 and some of us have… have like actual jobs and shit. And no, I’m not okay, my ass hurts like I got fucked by a cactus and and I would rather fucking die than live with another second of this headache. I keep having to put my, my gun down! I can’t fucking work like this, man!” Pete was amused by the definite increase in swearing. He didn’t know if he wanted to push the question of  _ us _ again. Instead, he apologized, sincerely and like he meant it. Well. he did. Patrick seemed to be more back to his usual self after a minute or two, which meant he was still perpetually bossy, but not obnoxiously so. And yes, that really only made sense in Pete’s head. 

“I, umh… was wondering…” there was something sceptical behind blue eyes, like they were unsure of what to expect, “I just… if I didn’t fuck up too badly yesterday, I… look, I really enjoyed myself. Until the point where I was the second most drunk person in the room”, he didn’t miss Patrick’s scowl, “and I was wondering if you’d… go out with me… again… sometime… properly. On a date. I’m asking you on a… on a date.” Wow, that was hard to get through. Patrick’s face was so difficult to read, guarded carefully, like he knew how to keep his emotions to himself, and Pete’s heart sank a little as he wordlessly got up and walked away. But he didn’t disappear behind the curtain. Pete followed him tentatively to stand on the other side of the reception desk, trying to peek what was being scrawled down. The card was slapped onto the wood with little love. “My number. Just… call me. After work sometime. Not today! I’m not up for much today. My ass certainly isn’t. But some other time.” It seemed so curt, sharp and distant that, were Pete not pro at reading cues, he wouldn’t be able to spot the little hint of teasing, the  _ you’re gonna have to wait for me _ and the  _ this isn’t going to be easy now _ and usually he’d not go for that, but Patrick… well, he guessed he had a decent reason to be wary.. “Thanks! I’ll call you! Or text, less intimidating… for me, I mean.” Ugh. Mouth. Brain. Connection. What?

“Yeah. See you.” And with that, Patrick disappared into the back room he’d emerged from.

  
  
  
  


Okay,  yes, Pete knew answering the door wearing nothing but a pair of suit trousers and an open shirt might not be appropriate, and yes, Gerard‘s ever-so-slightly disturbed look at the sight confirmed his suspicions, but he wasn‘t in the best of moods right now. “You, uh… heading out?” 

“No, Gee, I’m gonna spend the evening on the couch with a bottle of champagne and some caviar wearing half a three-piece.” He got raised eyebrows for that. “I was just checking you were alright, there were… some noises.” Pete painfully recalled the mirror smashing to the floor. Honestly, god fucking damn his shitty-ass wings. “I’m fine. Thanks.” 

“Date?” 

“Huh?” Pete had already disappeared back into his room to pick out a shirt, he hadn’t expected to be followed. “Yeah. I think. Red or black?” 

“Red. The dude from two weeks ago?” Pete nodded. Christ, had it already been two weeks? “Well that’s good. You sounded like you were having… fun.” Yikes. His neighbours hadn’t mentioned anything about that night so far, but… “Don’t worry, I’ve heard more disturbing sounds. Though he is a screamer…” Pete fucking hated the fact that he couldn’t remember that himself. “Where you off to?” Pete tugged on a waistcoat, only to quickly discard it again because he was  _ not _ heading out on a five-star dinner date. “Purple Pig.” 

“Aaah, dinner-date. That serious are we?” The blazer was alright though, that didn’t feel over-dressed. “We’re just… he’s cute, man, really cute. And talented, fuck, he’s so talented! When my tattoo is done, I’ll show you, but I kinda wish I’d asked him for something with colour. Wait, I still could! Yeah, next thing I get will be by Patrick, but colour this time because fuck, the way he uses colour, Gerard, it’s like a dream, a lucid dream.” He was aware he was rambling, if only because of the warm smile on Gerard’s face. It shut Pete up with an embarrassed little cough pretty quickly. “If he’s anywhere near as into you as you are into him, this could be promising.” 

Oh, Gee knew. He knew of the string of lovers Pete brought back, every time in the hope that maybe, just maybe, this one would stay until the morning. He was a romantic, a lover. He couldn’t help it, what was he supposed to do? He offered a weak smile and rolled on a pair of socks. “You picking him up or meeting him there?” 

“Picking him up. He doesn’t own a car.”

“Oh. City kid?” 

“Yeah…” Black. The black shoes. Yes. no, too formal. Not the shiny ones. Suede. Better. “He’s been tattooing you, right?” Pete shot his neighbour a suspicious glare. “How the fuck do you know?” Gerard just casually shrugged off the question. “I hear stuff. Does he know about the wings?” No. No, Patrick did not know about the wings. Nor did he need to. Why would he need to know about them? Why was Gerard even asking? Did it fucking matter that he occasionally had feathers sprouting out of his back? “You should tell him. At some point. Not now, don’t freak him out so early on.” 

“I don’t need to tell him, Gee. He doesn’t need to know.” He grabbed his coat on the way out, Gerard still talking away at him as he locked up. “If this thing gets serious I think he should. You do some dumb shit with those wings strapped to you and you know you’re not invincible. Someday you’re gonna hurt yourself really badly and… you might just want somebody to have your back.” Pete didn’t want to think about the implication hidden in Gerard’s voice. He remembered it, clear as day, he remembered they pain more than anything, the pain and, for the first time in his life, the thought of  _ please God, let me live _ . He blocked it off. “Night, Gee. Thanks for the pep talk”, he called over his shoulder as the elevator doors slid shut, although he wasn’t thankful in the slightest.

  
  
  
  


“It’s wild, y’know, like… like the fact that they invited me?  _ Me _ ? I mean, I’m not bad, but I’m nothing special, right? Like, like Gabe or Travie totally deserve to go to this thing, but…” No, Pete didn’t really know what Patrick was talking about. Last thing he’d gathered, he’d been invited to some convention or another, but honestly, he was way too busy listening to his voice to hear his words. “It’s totally not true, y’know, like, the  _ worst _ tattoos aren’t generic ones, they’re ones you  _ know _ won’t work out but, like… but some 25-year-old dude with a superiority complex thinks they know, they know better than you how to do your fucking job, right, because they’re like, a few inches taller or something?” And if you’re asking whether Pete’s jaw had dropped when Patrick had emerged from his apartment building wearing a neat little suit combined with an understated, white shirt that had the buttons at the top of the collar undone, then the answer is yes. If you’re asking whether his concentration had been 100% on the road as they'd driven through Chicago, the answer is no. “Do you like Bowie?” Pete nodded absently. Of course he liked Bowie. Patrick’s face broke into a shining beam.

“Awesome! Like, albums or separate songs?” Pete shrugged, trying to get back into the flow of speaking himself without his voice giving away how desperately he wanted to kiss those lips because, come on, it was kinda pathetic. “I know Scary Monsters.” He wasn’t sure if giving the normie answer would score him points, but Patrick’s grin widened. “That’s super cool! Y’know, I never, I never really held much of… of people who, like, judge others for how exclusive their knowledge of music is? Like, you listen to what you want how you want. Even if it is basic shit.”

“You calling me basic?” And yeah, okay, maybe Pete had said that because he watched to love Patrick’s skin turn from alabaster to crimson when he got embarrassed. “No, n-no, I’m just saying… Well, it’s not… a bad thing… everybody knows… but like, it’s fine! You have a… you’re entitled to your, your music and… like, I’m not qualified to, like, p-” Patrick stopped dead mid-sentence when Pete took his hand in his own. He didn’t know if it was appropriate, but he didn’t care. Ocean blue eyes flickered down to where their fingers were slowly lacing before locking with whiskey brown ones. A small smile played at the corner of Pete’s lips. “It’s okay, I was just messing with you.” 

“You’re a dick”, Patrick uttered, but his voice gave him away. It was light and soft and as warm as the candlelight bathing his face in heat and making his hair burn a gold colour that could match the sun. “I do my best.” Pete stroked across his knuckles one more time before reluctantly tear himself away before finishing the last of his steak before it got cold. “Tell me about your daughter!”

  
  
  


The night seemed less cold with Patrick’s laugh cutting through it. He was hanging off Pete’s arm and giggling to himself about some dumb joke that had passed between them that hadn’t even been that funny. But he seemed a little tipsy and a little out of it and frankly, Pete would have found anything he had to say funny, so the fact that the feeling was mutual, well… he took Patrick to his home, of course, all the way up to the doorstep of his apartment Pete still hadn’t set foot in. all the more reason to accept the invitation. “Sorry for the mess”, Patrick was frantically flitting around the room, throwing shit into cabinets and behind furniture before Pete got a chance to see half of it. It was bare brick on the outside wall, decorated with shelves carrying more vinyl records than anybody could ever listen to. Opposite was an old, battered-looking couch and an armchair that did not match in the slightest. All in all, the furniture all looked rather mix-n-don’t-match, it seemed like they were random items that had been accumulated over the years. The walls that weren’t brick were a light, pastel green and decorated with an array of pictures and drawings and the occasional little board carrying plants and candles and little bits and bobs. Oh, and the clutter… there was so much clutter, everywhere. 

“It’s amazing!” Pete heard himself saying, “this is the cutest apartment… wow!” Patrick had already pressed a glass of wine into his hand before he could protest and signalled for him to sit on the couch as he flopped down on the other end. “It’s… a mess. Like, this isn’t… I kinda want a… something more modern and tidy and minimalist but I just… I have too much fuckin stuff…” Whatever. Pete thought it was cute. Pete thought Patrick was cute. He pointed at one of the pictures on the wall, it was surrounded by some framed drawings, none of them by Patrick as far as he could tell… it was a little girl with blonde hair and very familiar blue eyes. “Your daughter?” Something shifted in Patrick, he could tell. He’d expected maybe a spark of happiness and joy and pride or whatever, something along those lines, something parental, but his easy smile faltered just long enough for Pete to think he was missing part of the picture. “Yeah, that’s… her.” She was very cute. Though maybe she was only so cute because she was Patrick’s and the thought of Patrick looking after a child made Pete a soft bitch. “How old is she?”

“Eight.”

“Eight?!” She did not look eight. Sure, that picture could be old, but that meant… “wait, how old are you?” Patrick raised an eyebrow that quickly turned his whole expression into a sceptical one. “Twenty-nine. Why?”

“You… had a kid at twenty-one?” 

“Twenty, actually, is that a problem?” Yeah, Pete was really bad at noticing when his questioning got intrusive. “Oh, not, sorry, not at all, just, for most people that’s pretty young, but I’m not judging at all, I mean, it’s your business when you want to have kids a-”

“Th- she was an accident. Best fucking accident that ever happened to me, but an accident. Believe me, I was not ready to have kids at twenty.” There was just a hint of regret when he took a big gulp of his wine. Pete wanted to know more about her, more about Patrick and how he’d raised a kid when he was still one himself, but he knew he’d already pushed a little too far and he didn’t wanna risk pushing past a point Patrick wouldn’t be comfortable with, so he stared at the rest of the pictures in silence. “Is that her as a baby?” He pointed to a picture of a tiny child wrapped up in a bundle of pink blankets wearing a little hat with the face of a bear on the front. “No”, Patrick scowled, “that’s me.” Pete turned and looked at him in surprise before lifting himself up onto his knees so he could get a closer look. “Please don’t ask why I have a picture of myself on the wall, I keep forgetting to take it down.” It didn’t matter, not to Pete, he didn’t care why it was there, he was just happy he got to see tiny little sleeping Patrick, all red-cheeked and drooling. “It’s cute! She looks terribly like you. Your daughter.” 

“Poor thing…” Never in a million years had Pete stopped to consider Patrick might say something like that. He turned back around to face him, eyes serious and face set in stone. Patrick was cowered in on himself, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he did everything to avoid his eyes. “Don’t say that.” There was no reaction, so Pete shuffled closer until he was kneeling in front of Patrick and could gently cup his face with his hand. “You’re fucking beautiful, man. Don’t say shit like that.” A smile played around the corners of Patrick’s mouth, but it never really made it any further than that, so Pete did the only thing that felt right. Patrick’s lips were warm and soft, nothing like Pete’s own torn and chapped ones, damaged by the chill that had been hanging in the air for the past few weeks. There was a light flutter of eyelashes against his cheek and the skin below his palm was smooth. Everything about Patrick was nice, all of it, it was just safe. He was safe. 

Pete broke away somewhat reluctantly when he noticed the kiss getting deeper. Patrick frowned at him, obviously thrown off. “I thought-” 

“Shh, it’s okay.” Pete didn’t miss the way his face fell, the way he glanced at the photo over his shoulder, just for a second. “I mean, I… I really want to, but… you’ve had just a little bit more to drink than me and I don’t wanna take advantage of that if you’re gonna regret it tomorrow morning.” 

“I won’t!” Patrick jumped in, “I won’t, I want… this, I-” Another brief kiss silenced him. “Next time, yeah? When we’re both a bit more sober and a bit less emotional.” He didn’t seem happy, but he nodded and didn’t complain and Pete thought he might be grateful in the morning. Speaking of which, “it’s pretty late, I should get going, yeah? I can… I can get you to bed if you want, but I don’t think you’re anywhere near drunk enough not to manage it yourself.” A subtle little sigh filled the room that was oddly heart-wrenching. “I’m not drunk, Pete, I just… me and alcohol don’t mix well.” No, they really didn’t. “Alright, then… uh… I’ll get going? If that’s okay? But, like, I really, really enjoyed myself and I really like you a lot so… a week on Saturday, maybe? You free then?” 

“So, like, the 14th?” Pete nodded, even though he had no idea. “Yeah. Yeah, 14th sounds good. That’s fine.” He hoped it was the 14th. He also hoped he wasn’t working that day. He should probably have checked with his boss first but whatever. “Oh, let me… let me see you out! I…” Pete pushed him back into the couch with a gentle hand to his chest. Even that felt safe. “You go get ready for bed. I’m fine, promise. I’ll see you soon.” Patrick didn’t put up much of a fight as he flopped back into the soft upholstery. 

Pete was almost at the door when he was called back. “Wait!” Patrick was peeping over the back of the couch, “can you kiss me? Please.” Of course. Of course Pete could. Like he even needed to ask. He walked back to where he’d just come from until he could lean over the back of the sofa and touch their lips together. And yes, the realization that he was basically Spiderman didn’t pass him by. All of a sudden, as he was lazily indulging in as much  _ Patrick _ as he could, he felt the sudden urge to tell him, better, to let him know that the art he was creating on Pete’s body was so much more than he could imagine, that it meant the world and more to him because it was his one way of showing who he was without being carted off and vivisected as a monster. He could just do it, he could just let his wings sprout from his back and curl around them both. 

Instead, he broke away and tried to seem as collected as he could when he finally wished Patrick goodnight and walked out of the door. Shit, he wanted to tell him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Patrick was working when he got the call. The last touches of a half-sleeve he‘d been working on since June, though very infrequently. His phone never ever rang, ever, save the odd exception where Gabe was wondering if he‘d overslept again or cute clients asking him out on dates. He put his gun down with a sigh and an apologetic smile as he reached into his pocket to shut MJ up, stopping only when he saw the name on the display. Fuck. Why was Lisa calling him? “Sorry, I… need to…“ he didn‘t wait for his client‘s reaction. “Hey, sweetie, what‘s up?“ But it wasn‘t Lisa‘s high-pitched, childish voice that sounded through the speaker.  _ “Am I speaking to Patrick Stump?“ _ a man asked. Patrick found himself frowning. “Yes, who is this?“

_ “I’m calling from Lakeshore Hospital, are you the parent of Lisa Susanna Stump?” _ Fuck. Fuck, no. Patrick’s blood ran cold and his brain was no longer in control of his tongue as a series of worst-case scenarios played out in his head of his little daughter, his baby girl sick or injured or worse, he couldn’t do this again, he’d barely survived the first time, he couldn’t do it again. “Fuck, yes, yes, what… is she okay? Is she alright, is she hurt? What happened, is my… is my baby girl alright? Fuck, I’ll… does she need anything? I can, I can send money or-”

_ “She’s quite alright, don’t worry, she is completely fine.” _ Never had mere words brought so much relief. Patrick slapped a hand over his mouth to choke back a sob of relief.  _ “Is it possible she stay with you for a few weeks? Her mother has been involved in… in an accident and she’s going to need somewhere she can live for a bit.” _

“I- yes, of course, of course she can! I’ll… pick her up, yeah? Give me… an hour or so, I’m on my way.” He didn’t wait for the goodbye, he just hung up. And no, he didn’t consider that he hadn’t actually lived with kids in the house for four years and he certainly didn’t stop to think why Lisa couldn’t just stay with her step-dad. It didn’t matter, the simple prospect of being able to have his little darling for more than a weekend made Patrick happy enough for him to apologize to his client and book him in after hours the next day. He needed to get it right this time and she needed to be his priority.

  
  
  


Patrick hated hospitals. Yeah, sure, everybody kinda does, the smell of antiseptic and sickness, but for him it was so much more. It was sleepless nights and heart monitors and burning tears down hollow cheeks in the black of night when nothing more could be done. He’d not set foot in one for four years, ever since he’d left with a much too small coffin and a good helping of depression. He was grinding his jaw to focus on anything but memories threatening to spill as he tried to follow the receptionist’s instructions to his daughter. He knocked on the door, too quietly, he thought for a few minutes, but after a while, he saw it swing open just a crack and a pair of familiar blue eyes peep out at him. Lisa smiled politely as he stepped in, taking in the yellow walls and the linoleum floor. It felt wrong following her, it felt wrong being in the same room as his ex-wife. His ex-wife whom he hadn’t seen since a custody trial. It had nearly killed him. What was worse, in the last year, she’d made a point of never being in the same space as him, even if they were co-parenting. Kind of. 

No surprise then that Patrick felt a little nauseous as he approached the hospital bed. Actually, he was close to throwing up when he reached it and he wasn’t sure if that was because of the woman lying on it or because of the state she was in. “Oh God, Rachel, what happened?” 

Three years. Three years since he’d last spoken to her, the woman he’d loved once, she’d been his best friend, at times even his only friend. Three years of nothing after they’d had everything and then…  _ “what happened?” _

She squinted up at him through a black eye, like she, too, was having some trouble figuring out what to feel. Her left hand was gently stroking her daughter’s,  _ their _ daughter’s hair, but her right arm was in a cast. She did eventually speak, after what must have been minutes of mutual silence, but her voice was quiet and raspy and broken. “I’m sorry.”

_ I’m sorry _ . Fuck, how long had Patrick wanted to hear that? How long had he waited for her to admit that, yes, he’d been fucked up, but she had fucked up. And why didn’t it feel like a victory when he finally got the apology he had wanted for so long?

“What happened?” He was a broken record, he knew it. He had every right to be. She just shook her head. “I, uh… she needs somewhere to stay.”

“And why can’t she go home? Doesn’t she have a step-father? Mark or something? Martin? Michael?” It didn’t take long for him to put two and two together when he saw the panic cross Rachel’s features, saw the way her body tensed and heard her breathing become more rapid. He bowed his head, yes, in shame, because much as he hated what she had done and how she had treated him, he didn’t hate her. And he wasn’t going to be the one to remind her of somebody she probably wanted to forget. He wouldn’t apologize. He didn’t go that far. “Yes, of course she can stay with me.” He’d never wanted anything more, really. 

And then Rachel held out her hand. Patrick hesitated, confused as to what was happening, what she wanted, aware of the fact that he really didn’t want to touch her, but…

He carefully reached out and took it. “Your hands”, she croaked, “they’re always so sweaty.” There were tears in her eyes. Patrick shrugged. “I’m a sweaty little guy.” The laugh she let out hurt in a way he didn’t want to think about, in a way that made him nostalgic for hot summers and crisp autumns around the lake, young and dumb and in love like the stupid kid he’d been. A lifetime ago. A different Patrick, a different Rachel. “You’re a sweaty little guy with a big heart… and I think letting you go might have been the biggest mistake I ever… ever…” He offered a sympathetic smile, but carefully pried his hand away. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to head down this road. It had taken him so long to heal, he never wanted to re-visit the times that had wounded him. “You’ll be okay.” Was all he managed to reply. 

“You behave, yeah? Don’t give daddy a hard time, okay?” Patrick would be lying if he said his heart didn’t do a thousand somersaults at the acknowledgement that, yes, he was her dad. She was his, his little girl, the little baby he’d held when she was barely an hour old, the little bundle of blankets he’d looked down at on February 2nd 2005 and wept onto. He’d held her then, he’d rocked her and kissed her forehead and promised her the world. He’d done it twice. He’d failed once. He was so close to failing again. 

Lisa nodded obediently and wrapped her little fingers around Patrick’s hand, even if there was still no love, not from her. It didn’t matter, Patrick told himself, he had enough for the both of them.

  
  
  


“Can I watch TV?” 

“Sure, just until dinner’s ready.” Patrick wasn’t used to cooking meat, he never did any for himself, but he didn’t want to stop Lisa from having any. If Lisa wanted burgers, Lisa was getting burgers. It had been three days since he’d picked her up from hospital, three days of another person living with him,  _ depending _ on him. He’d almost forgotten what that was like, especially since this wasn’t like their weekends, he was working and she, well… she was staying. How long for neither of them knew, but did it matter? 

The TV was babbling on and the pan was sizzling when the sharp buzz of the ancient doorbell cut through the air. Patrick cursed and stormed to the door, desperate to get to his hot pan. Who the fuck w-

“Pete?” Pete was wearing a pair of suit trousers and a button-down, long, black coat slung over his arm and looking like a fucking model. Patrick was suddenly painfully aware of the apron still tied around his waist. “I, umh… What…” He did his best to seem confused rather than sad when he saw Pete’s facial expression drop. “Umh…”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Oh. Shit. The date. The hand he slapped over his face actually hurt. “Oh, God, damn! Pete I am… so sorry… it’s been a wild week and… oh sh- ugh.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at the little girl peeping from behind the sofa. “We can… do another day if you‘re busy. And you want.“ Pete was doing his best not to sound disappointed, Patrick could tell. And yes, he felt bad, really bad. He liked Pete, liked him a lot, in fact, and he really wanted to go out on dumb dates with him like a teenager but… well… ”Yesh, yeah, that would… I‘m sorry, Pete, I-“

“Who is it?“ Patrick looked down to where the little voice has piped up from. Lisa was standing by his elbow, looking at the intruder with curiosity. Pete, meanwhile, looked rather stunned. ”it‘s… this is Pete. He‘s a friend. Pete, this is Lisa, my-” but before he could finish his sentence, Pete had eagerly reached out and offered the little girl a hand to shake that was taken without hesitation. ”Hi Lisa, it‘s nice to meet you! I‘ve heard so much about you! But don‘t worry“, he sent Patrick a wink that made him blush ridiculously, ”Daddy muddled up his plans and I‘m gonna be off again, I don‘t wanna bother you.“ Yes, fuck, damn, Patrick felt bad, but what was he supposed to d-

”Why can‘t you stay with us?“ Lisa was staring at Pete, her expression somewhere between curiosity and confusion. And when Patrick looked up at Pete, his face read something like “I’m up for it”, so Patrick stepped aside and waved him in. “Sorry the place is a bit of a mess”, he said, hastily throwing his washing up in the sink and doing his best to hide his dirty laundry behind any object of furniture nearby. “I uh… do you want… I’m making burgers, but… do you want the vegetarian option or…” 

“No thanks, burgers are fine. If you have enough, like… don’t go to any extra effort for me.” Patrick slapped some more mince meat onto the worktop and began moulding it into a patty, “I feel dinner is the least I can do to make… to make it up to you…” Pete didn’t seem to be listening anymore.

“So are you two dating?” Patrick wanted to die, just a little bit. Were they? They’d been on two dates, technically, their third now, apparently, and had had sex, unsuccessfully, so… were they? Pete chuckled. “Kinda. I guess. I think you’d have to ask your dad.” Patrick braced himself for the question, but it never came. “How did you meet?” 

“Well, your dad is doing a tattoo on my back and I thought he was cute so…” Yeah, the heat was definitely rising to his cheeks. Patrick would just blame it on the pan. “Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“The tattoo.”

“Oh, yeah, it hurts like a bitch.” Patrick shot Pete a glare over his shoulder. “But when I have pretty hands stroking it better, it’s not so b-”

“ALRIGHT, DINNER!” He declared as loudly as he possibly could, just to shut Pete up before he got going. The table was a little too small for three people, but they… managed. And Patrick didn’t know whether to feel jealous or happy as he watched Pete and Lisa talking like they’d known each other for years, like  _ he _ was her father and Patrick was the stranger who’d just shown up on the doorstep…

“Mommy used to bring home men…” Patrick didn’t want that to hurt and it really shouldn’t, he wasn’t with Rachel anymore, he didn’t love her, he really didn’t… “I didn’t like them. They were all loud and a bit mean sometimes. Mo was alright, he was nice to me, but he wasn’t nice to mommy.” Her delivery was so casual, so nonchalant, so matter-of-fact it was almost disturbing and Pete’s face was filled with as much concern as Patrick’s when their gazes met. “Is your mom gonna be okay?” He’d seen her, sure, but… well, he’d not exactly stayed for long. “Doctor Hurley says so.” She seemed so unbothered by the whole situation it made Patrick’s skin crawl. “Well you can… you can stay here as long as you need, okay? I don’t… I don’t mind.” Her smile was nothing but politeness. “Thanks.” And fuck, he just wished she’d call him dad. 

  
  


“She’s sweet, I like her”, Pete declared after Patrick had put Lisa to bed and started the washing up. He needed to invest in a dishwasher. “Yeah, she’s… she’s amazing.” Unfiltered adoration, that was what he felt for her. “You don’t see her much, do you?” Patrick sighed heavily, which seemed to be enough of an answer, “it’s okay, you know. I mean, I don’t have any experience, but I can tell you’re trying your best. She’ll appreciate it someday.” He hoped so. Someday. “Can we, uh… I’d rather not talk about it… please…” It hurt too much, considering what he might have had were life a little less cruel. “Okay, sure, yeah, sorry… I really like your cooking, by the way.” A smile tugged at the corners of Patrick’s mouth. “Thank you. I enjoy it. Like… just as a hobby or whatever.” 

“Oh, it’s good! Real good! I really liked it, thank you. I enjoyed our little date.” Oh, the shame of it, it was already burning in Patrick’s cheeks again. “I’m… Pete, I’m really sorry I forgot, just… with Lisa here and… and work and everything’s just-” He was cut off by a pair of lips pressed against his mouth. Patrick couldn’t help but melt into Pete’s touch a bit, into the kiss as well as into the arm around his lower back. It almost hurt to break apart. Pete’s eyes were so close they were all he could see, big and brown and so  _ fucking _ pretty. He was batting so far out of his league here. “Patrick…” Pete’s voice was low and sincere and sent shivers down his spine, “shut the fuck up.” And then they re-connected, hungry and desperate and nothing at all like the first one, too many teeth, too much tongue, too much saliva and Patrick was pretty sure there was a hand snaking up his shirt. He pushed Pete away, just a little bit, just enough for him to pant a quick “bedroom” and for Pete to nod and next thing he knew, he was being pushed up against his bedroom door, golden hands all over him, tugging at his clothes and stroking his skin and Patrick had to bite his lip to keep all the little noises in. “Fuck, Patrick”, Pete whispered against his throat, “fuck, I’ve wanted… I want…” Patrick let out a little whine as he rubbed his crotch against Pete’s thigh. “Fuck, can I?” It took him a moment to register what he was asking, to register  _ that _ he was asking, after last time… “Yes, fuck, please…” A hot tongue traced along his neck and he tried really hard not to reveal that that was pretty much his number one weakness, though he couldn’t stop his knees from buckling just a little. Not that that got any better when Pete broke away from his neck only to sink to his knees in front of him as he fumbled with his fly. Thankfully, Patrick had enough wits about him to twist the key in its lock, just in case, before Pete managed to work his trousers down. He couldn’t hold back the high whine that came with a nose nuzzling into his skin at the base of his cock, inhaling sharply as it flitted over his boy, teasing him with every inch. 

Pete licked a broad stripe up the underside of his dick, eliciting a shiver from Patrick as some more sweet noises escaped from behind those perfect, pink lips. He wanted to do it right this time. He suckled a little at the head, his lips wrapped around it loosely, just enough for there to be contact as his tongue flitted over the slit. He was good at this and he knew it. He allowed himself to grip onto Patrick’s thighs, so his fingertips were digging into soft, white flesh where they could leave dark marks as reminders of how good he was. He let Patrick’s fingers wrap into his hair, they didn’t try to force him down or pull him away, they just gripped on tightly for dear life as he slid down a little tiny bit before pulling off completely so he could grin up at the blond writhing against the wooden door. “You’re… you’re an ass, Pete… please… just….” His own desperate mewl cut him off as Pete took pity on him and sunk down again - properly. He knew how this worked, he had enough practice. Pete considered himself something of a slut, to be honest, he quite enjoyed it, sex was rarely boring and the thrill of an orgasm was almost always worth it even if it was. Patrick, however, wasn’t quite as familiar to this as Pete himself was, if Travie’s words were anything to go by. He squirmed and gasped and moaned quietly as Pete sucked his cock, using all those little twists of his tongue, all those little tricks he’d acquired, sucking in the right moments, pausing when he needed to, never hesitating to pull off until just Patrick’s head was between his lips and he could taste a hint of bitterness on his tongue or to sink down until he could barely breathe. 

“Okay, shit, shit, Pete, I’m gonna… I’m…” And with a  _ pop _ , Pete pulled away one final time and stood up, shit-eating grin on his face as he held Patrick up by his shoulders. He was panting heavily, hot and flushed red and sweating. Quite the sight, frankly. Pete placed another kiss on his lips as he caught his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now?” His high whine and the sharp nod was all he needed to guide Patrick over to the bed and sit him down on the bouncy mattress. He was still wearing his shirt. Pete wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Admittedly, he was fully clothed, but it wasn’t himself he wanted to stare at. “Lose this?” He tugged at Patrick’s t-shirt flimsily and almost without hesitation, Patrick sat up and whipped it off, pulling Pete back down with him as he lay back. Pete had always found there was something indescribably hot about being fully-clothed with a beautiful, naked person below him and right now, he was lying between the legs of quite possibly the prettiest man he’d ever seen. He kissed along Patrick’s collarbone and bit down once before trailing down until he could wrap his lips around a nipple. Patrick whined again, so beautifully vocal, though Pete didn’t know whether that was down to his teeth nipping at sensitive skin or the finger he’d slid into him. The skin of Patrick’s chest was stained black with ink and Pete licked over every inch of the bird spreading its wings out across pale skin as he carefully flexed the fingers inside of Patrick, opening him up gradually, teasing him until he was quietly begging for it, whispering Pete’s name like a forbidden prayer. “You ready for me, sugar?” Pete pressed a sloppy kiss to Patrick’s lips, “you ready for my dick?” He took the stuttered breath and the way Patrick readjusted his hips just a little more as his  _ go _ . “Where’s your lube?” He asked as he slipped out of his trousers, already opening the condom he’d brought. “Drawer.” Patrick all but panted. Pete smirked at the way he had pushed two of his fingers inside of himself and was rocking down on them. “Ugh, Pete, please…”

“Give me a second, baby boy…” He rolled on the condom and drizzled a decent amount of lube both onto his dick and Patrick’s ass. “Can you spread that out for me?” He asked as he slowly stroked himself, “can you get that inside of you?” Pete watched as Patrick obediently fingered himself, collecting up the lube as he went, occasionally whimpering as his fingers hit the spot he so desperately needed hitting. This could be enough for him, really, watching this as he fucked his fist, that was all Pete needed. 

But that was not what they had agreed on. “Okay, okay, that’s enough, thank you.” Long fingers slid out, making way for Pete. He was so open and willing and the shiver that shot through his body as Pete pressed the blunt head of his cock against him was enough to make him mad. “You ready?” Patrick was biting his lip so hard it was turning white, he nodded and Pete leaned forward, catching his lips in a kiss as he carefully pushed in. It took a second before Patrick’s body gave way and then a second more before he was fully inside, but once Pete was buried to the hilt, he let himself let go of a quiet little moan and fell forward, head buried in the crook of Patrick’s neck. He stayed like that for what must have been a minute, buried balls-deep inside of him, inhaling his scent, pressed against his body, just  _ feeling _ . “Can you… move or… or something… please…” Patrick was squirming just a little. Trying to get some friction of any kind. 

So Pete started moving. And fuck, did it feel good. All he could do was moan and curse and try to keep his voice down as he thrust into Patrick, drinking up the little noises and moves he was making, the nails digging into his back and the wet lips against his ear and the legs that wrapped themselves around his waist until he hit Patrick’s prostate on every single thrust until he was dragged down into a kiss designed to stifle the cries as Patrick hit his high, tearing Pete right down with him.

  
  
  
  


Pete lay next to Patrick, propped on his left arm as his right hand traced the lines etched into white skin. He knew he’d seen those tattoos before, but he couldn’t remember a single one of them and now he wanted to know their stories. His fingers brushed over black ink on his hip. “What’s this?” Patrick didn’t even open his eyes, he had been lost in a half-doze ever since Pete had pulled out of him and wiped him down. “A tabono. It’s Adinkra for paddle.” Pete understood about half those words. “Ah, that’s… nice?” The little smile he got in return warmed his insides just a bit.“It’s a West African symbol for a paddle. Stands for, like, persistence and strength and all that… pretty white girl, I know, but-”

“No. No, I’m not one to judge your tattoos. Unless it’s like a swastika or something…” 

“Y’know, swastikas actually have deep, religious meanings that pre-date fascist Germany…” Pete rolled his eyes, yes, Patrick was ever the know-it-all. “Yes, but you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” He traced his fingers further down until they reached the little olive branch on the inside of his thigh. “Guessing this stands for peace?”

“Peace, kindness, forgiveness… all of that, yanno. I’m not especially creative for a tattoo artist, I know…” It was pretty obvious symbolism, but it was pretty and the meaning of it was nice. “What about this… uh…”

“The Malevich?” Patrick shrugged. “First tattoo.” He rolled over onto his stomach and looked at his own arm lying on the cushion in front of him. “I just… thought it was pretty. That’s a valid reason to get it, yeah?” Of course it was, as good a reason as any. Pete nodded. “How old were you?” 

“Uh… 17.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “17? Wow, naughty boy.” That earned him a light slap to the shoulder. “Don’t tell me you only got your first when you were 18.” 

“Nah, I was 15.” Pete swore he could see Patrick’s eyes bulge. “You’re fucking crazy, man.” 

“Yeah, I know, but look where it got me.” And yes, he punctuated that with a slap across Patrick’s ass. “Nice. I love being objectified”, his voice was so flat it could only be a joke, so Pete laughed at it before casting his eyes over the flower on his back. “What about this one?” Okay, that changed Patrick’s body language. He tensed up and drew a sharp breath, turning slightly so Pete couldn’t see it as well. “I mean… you don’t have to…”

“A hyacinth. It was… it was blue when I first got it at 20. Dunno… guess I was just… a little naive…” he tried to shrug it off, but it was too late, Pete had already seen the way he’d closed off at the mention of it. “What colour is it now? It’s too dark, I can’t…” 

“Purple. It’s purple… google it, I dunno… actually… it’s just… google it.” Pete nodded sharply. It was obviously a topic he didn’t want to talk about, something tied to life rather than to moral. 

There was one more left. Pete couldn’t see it right now, but he’d paid more than enough attention to it before, every feather, every bone, every last line of it, huge and black and not at all like the others. “What about the bird?” 

The question was followed by a few minutes of silence in which Pete became increasingly more certain that eh’d be thrown out before the night was over. But then Patrick turned around, his eyes glinting in what little light bled through the curtains. He looked sad. So very, very sad, the bird on his chest lying over him like a blanket of thorns. “That’s… that’s a black dove… it’s for my daughter.” Pete frowned. Why did a tattoo for his daughter make him sad? And why was it so… unhappy? “Lisa? But how-”

“No, not Lisa.” What? Not Lisa? His daughter… but not Lisa? “I- I don’t think I-”

“That photo in the living room? The one you saw?” Pete nodded. Yes, he remembered it, the little, blonde girl that was most definitely the same kid he’d seen a few hours ago. “That’s not Lisa.” Pete shuffled closer. “Then who?” A loud sigh filled the room. It sounded like hurt, years and years of hurt and pain and a weight that couldn’t be shifted. “Her name is Charlotte… was… he name was Charlotte… you see, Lisa wasn’t… she wasn’t… she’s a twin. There were two of her, she, uh, she had a little sister, 12 minutes younger and just as bright and… and beautiful…” Pete’s heart cracked along with Patrick’s voice “she’d, uh… she drew on fucking everything and, like, I know kids do that, but she… nowhere was safe. She loved the lake! She was  _ always _ in the lake, all the time, whenever we asked her what- what she wanted to do, she’d always reply “go to the lake” and then she’d argue with us until we took her. She was so fucking stubborn…” a sad smile was painted on Patrick’s face and Pete didn’t want him to say any more, didn’t want to have to deal with the hurt as well. But he could tell Patrick needed to. 

“What happened?” He shrugged. “She got sick. People do that, they get sick… sometimes it’s kids… sometimes it’s your kid and… fuck… she stayed so positive, so bright… ‘it’s gonna be okay, daddy’, she’d say, ‘it’s gonna be alright’.” He sniffed and wiped a hand across his eyes and even in the dark, Pete could see the tears sparkling in his eyes. 

“I, uh… when she… it was four years ago and I… it hurt so bad, Pete, it did… and at first, we were both… both so broken and… but she got better, she managed to heal, if not completely, but… and I just, I couldn’t, I… it got so bad, Pete.” Patrick’s sentences were incomplete and fractured, almost a poetic mirror of the story they were telling and Pete felt like there should be a German compound word for what was burning inside of him. “I couldn’t take it, I… she couldn’t take me, she said she couldn’t deal with my sadness. Like, I don’t blame her, she had… her own and… I needed to heal, I can see that now, but… but she took everything, she took… she took my little girl, the only one left to me and… I didn’t… I didn’t see her for… for over two years… and now she, she doesn’t even…” Pete couldn’t take it anymore, he lunged forward and dragged Patrick into a tight, bone-crushing hug, just to hold him close until he didn’t feel alone. Pete didn’t want him to be alone. “Th-his isn’t home for her, Pete”, he was stifling sobs, “I’m- I’m not her dad, not to her sh-he hasn’t… hasn’t called me dad since… since…”

“Shhhh, shhhhh, it’s okay”, Pete gently stroked through the blonde hair, rocking Patrick’s little body back and forth as he allowed him to cry into his shoulder. “It’s okay, I’ve got you…” Patrick had found himself a father of two at 20 and lost a child at, what, 24? 25?… he had every right to cry, even if it was only the second date. It felt like so much more, anyway, and Pete wasn’t just pinning that on the awkward first not-date. “I’m so-”

“I swear to god, Patrick,” Pete interrupted him, blinking back his own tears, “if you apologize, I will never let you tattoo me again.” At least that got a little chuckle out of him, followed up with a choked-off “thank you.”

  
  
  
  
  


“So you  _ are _ dating.” Pete’s eyes cracked open at the sound of a little girl’s voice that honestly sent his brain into horror survival mode until he was awake enough to take in his surroundings. And the fact that he was naked. And somebody was naked next to him. Somebody was sitting up next to him, talking to the little girl’s voice. “No, we… kinda? I don’t know… it’s… I don’t know. How late is it?” 

“10 a. m.” Patrick - because that was who was sitting up next to him, Patrick - groaned quietly. “I’ll make you breakfast, sweetie, just let me get dressed real quick…” Pete decided not to let them both know he was awake just yet, he just happily listened to their innocent little conversation. “Okay. Thanks, dad.” The click of the shutting door didn’t overshadow the gasp Patrick let out. He was sitting, frozen, not making any move to get dressed. Pete pushed himself up and wrapped his arms around his torso from behind, burying his smile in the crook of Patrick’s neck. “See? It’s gonna be okay.” Patrick was still too stunned to reply. “She called me dad…” he breathed, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Of course she did, you are her dad. Might take a bit of reminding, but you are.” Patrick’s laugh was golden, filling Pete’s heart and making his head spin and he might be a little bit too in love for the second date. “I think you need to make your daughter her breakfast.” 

“Yes, of course!” Patrick leapt up and tugged on the nearest clothes he could find, Pete shook his head at the selection of ill-fitting shorts and an argyle sweater that looked approximately 10 years old. 

When Pete finally emerged, having washed and dressed, Patrick was nowhere to be found, the only person in the room was Lisa tapping around on an iPad as she ate her waffles. Pete sat down opposite her. “You doing alright?” 

“Mhm.” She nodded, her little face pulled in concentration as she played whatever game was on the screen. “Where’s your dad?” 

“Said he’s getting bread.” Seemed plausible enough. “I heard you talking last night.” Oh shit. All blood left Pete’s body at the thought of what else she might have heard. No kid should have to go through hearing that and somehow most kids did? It was cruel. “I was… I know he’s my daddy, but… he just wasn’t there for so long and mommy told me he was sick so I wasn’t to see him.” Poor thing. Poor, little thing. Of course, nobody had told her the full version of the story, even if kids so often understood these things better. “He was… very sad and… I mean, I don’t know exactly, but it sounds like his brain was sick and… well, he’s better now. He’s trying his best.” Pete offered as an explanation. It seemed nice and neutral. “Is that why you called him dad? Because you heard?” She nodded her little head and Pete couldn’t help but think the kindness must run in the family. “I know he’s trying, I just… he wasn’t there.” 

“I know. It’s okay, you don’t… have to let all of him into your life straight away, just… little bits. Baby steps.” She nodded, determination filling her little body and it made Pete smile. “Baby steps.”

  
  
  
  


Christmas Eve. Patrick had hoped he could keep her with him over the holidays, but, alas, no such luck… He supposed the fact that he’d actually managed to bond somewhat with his child over the last two weeks had to be enough of a Christmas gift. Rachel wanted her back before 10, so you bet Patrick had filled up their day until 9:59

On the dot, they’d gone out for breakfast and then he’d taken her to the oy store so she could pick out a present and he’d spent way too much money on a set of playmobil and they’d brought it back home where he did a really bad job of wrapping it. Okay, he’d shouted at the paper as Lisa wrapped her own present because God knows she was better at it than him. Then they sat down and had lunch, a warm potato soup followed up by fish fingers because the lady requested it, so they sat bonding over cheap, battered fish with Mariah singing away in the background. 

Patrick loved Christmas, he always had. The lights, the weather, the music… everything was so warm and inviting and loving and people were actually fucking nice for once. He’d spent the last three pretty much alone, save the occasional visit from Ashley or Gabe, and he’d filled them with drawing, sketching, writing, anything just to not think about the fact that he should be surrounded by a family. Now he was.

He was no good at ice-skating, as it turned out. Sure, he’d tried it before, years ago, but had avoided it like the plague since he was maybe 10. But if Lisa wanted to go ice skating, he was gonna go ice skating. And it was only a little humiliating when she whizzed around him proficiently as he still scrambled for the banister like a little child. It made her happy, though, the way she could airily glide around and do her little twists and turns and show off to a father who had exactly  _ zero _ skill, only to come zooming over every once in a while to help him back up when he’d planted his ass firmly on the ground. “I don’t know why people do this, it’s a dumb idea…” Patrick complained on a particularly nice fall he was pretty certain had bruised his tailbone. Lisa just rolled her eyes at him, “it’s fun, Mister Grinch! You’re just really bad at it.” And Patrick stuck his tongue out at her and she laughed lightly and it felt like home.

  
  
  


“You got everything?” Lisa nodded, the little suitcase behind her that was close to bursting proof that there wasn’t really anything she could have missed. “Good.” Patrick didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t know what he’d done or what had changed, but he actually felt like her father rather than an awkward babysitter. He dropped down to his knees in front of her and pulled her into a tight hug, one hand resting on the back of her hair and gently stroking over blonde hair that was so much like his own as he buried his face in her big, fluffy coat. “I’m gonna miss you, pumpkin.” He said to the coat. “It’s okay”, she replied, “I can come back soon. After the holidays, maybe, when mommy doesn’t need me as much.” It hurt like fuck when the realization hit him that she should be needing them, not the other way around, she shouldn’t be needing to look after her parents, they should be taking care of her. He squeezed her a little tighter before letting her go. Patrick smiled when she poked his nose. “You’re gonna be alright, daddy?” He nodded, “I’m gonna be alright.” 

“Your brain isn’t going to get sick again?” What? What, how could she? Patrick’s brow furrowed in a deep-set frown. “Hey honey, how d’you know about that? Did mommy tell you?” He tried so hard not to resent his ex-wife for the stories she told about him, he’d heard twisted versions of his reality from people she’d gossiped with before and he’d learned to ignore them, but his own daughter… She shook her head. “Pete said. He said you were sick and that’s why you couldn’t see me. Well, mom said that, too, but she just said you were” Lisa twirled her finger next to her temple, it was like a kick to the face for Patrick. He forced a smile onto it instead. “Oh, Pete… yeah, no, it’s not gonna get sick again. I don’t think. Don’t worry about me, pumpkin.” He ruffled her hair and she tried to wiggle away, but her laughter betrayed her. And then he had tiny arms around his neck, holding onto him, keeping him warm and safe and… “thanks, dad. I know you’re trying very hard.” He pulled her closer, just wanted to keep her forever, safe and sound and shielded from the horrible world outside in his arms. “Thank you, darling.” He didn’t want to let go, but he knew he had to. “Come on kid,” he did his best to sound cheerful, “let’s get you home.”

  
  


Patrick didn’t need a car. He’d always lived in the city where it was more of a hindrance than anything, he’d have to pay parking and worm his way through the streets for hours when he could just hop on the L and be wherever he needed to within 10 minutes and with little effort. It was surprisingly busy for Christmas eve, though, a crowd of people desperately trying to get home filled the platform, pushing and shoving like they were the only ones in the room who needed to get to their trains. Patrick made sure to keep Lisa’s hand firmly locked in his as he tugged her over to the timetable. He had it memorized, in theory, but it was Christmas and he had no clue if the trains were going as regularly scheduled. 

In retrospect, Patrick didn’t know how it happened, how it could have happened. He blamed his ADHD-addled brain that was doing its utmost to focus on the squiggles in front of his glasses, to the point where it didn’t take in anything else, not even the fact that a tiny hand was missing from his. At first, not even the cries for help registered, not until they spread and turned into jostling, into movement, into pushing and shoving and panic and Patrick realized that  _ fuck. Where is Lisa? _ He thought he was going to pass out, his heart was thundering so hard. He spun around frantically in search for his little girl, his baby, a hint of blonde hair and blue eyes and a pink suitcase, he pushed and shoved through the crowd, yelling her name, getting more and more desperate with every step until his vision was blurring and black at the edges and he couldn’t breathe for the weight pushing on his lungs and everything was too much fuck, fuck, he was going to have an attack, right here in this crowd of strangers where nobody could help him, but he had to find his daughter, had to  _ had _ to…

And then she was right in front of him. Smaller than usual, so small, so… no, she wasn’t small, she was… she was low down and she… she…  _ fuck _ . “DON’T TOUCH THE TRACKS!” he yelled at her, as loud as his broken lungs would let him. “DON’T.... FUCK, SOMEBODY HELP! HELP ME!” The crowd didn’t move, they stayed staring at him as he lay down on his stomach and held his arms over the edge, reaching out for his little girl. “TAKE MY HANDS! TAKE THEM, FOR FUCK’S SAKE; TAKE THEM!” fingers firmly wrapped around his wrists, he had her, he could pull her up, he just needed to… 

A part of his brain had told him it was too late the second he had seen Lisa on the tracks, though he’d ignored it, pushed it back because what? Why would it be? He had time, he could get her off, he could do it, he could… but suddenly it clicked in again when the screeching of brakes reached his ears. The train was almost on top of them, blowing its horn, making the crowd scream and Patrick… Patrick was still lying over the edge, his kid was still on the tracks and… tunnel-vision took over. It was like a chliché, but he could see it, could see the train approaching and bringing the end with it.  _ This is it _ he thought  _ this is how I go _ . And funnily enough, the last thing he thought before the impact was that he never would get to finish that back piece.

  
  


Patrick cracked an eye open. Wait… he cracked an eye open. He was… he was alive, he hadn’t… he wasn’t… where was he? Was this heaven? Had he died? Was he dead? Was… he must be, that was an angel! An angel with… with fucking wings and… it was holding the train? Pushing it back, away from them. Patrick couldn’t move, he just lay there, staring at the winged figure pushing back against the machine, every muscle of its back clearly outlined against its skin as it struggled. It was all he could see. All he could hear was its voice, shouting at him to “GO! GO, GET AWAY!”, meaningless, empty words. Patrick felt hands on his shoulder, pulling him upwards and away. He’d forgotten something, left something behind. He didn’t know what, just knew he had to get it, struggled back, fighting against the hands trying to hold onto him to get back to where he’d just come from, he needed to get it, he couldn’t lose it again… 

“Patrick, Patrick… shhh, calm down, it’s okay”, the voice was so familiar, but he didn’t know why, “it’s okay, she’s here, it’s okay, shh.” There was a hand stroking his hair when he gripped onto the child that had been handed to him, hugging her until he was certain he was going to crush her tiny body. Lisa. Lisa was safe, she was alright, she wasn’t hurt. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for as he covered her in kisses and stroked her back, all the while not letting go of her trembling little body. “I’m sorry, sweetie, you’re safe, you’re okay.” He didn’t know if he was saying that to her benefit or to his. Patrick looked around for the angel, he wanted to thank them, even if he didn’t know how to, but they were nowhere to be seen, no set of black wings anywhere and, in fact, nobody seemed to have noticed anything abnormal, save the two people who had very nearly got hit by a train. 

Patrick looked down when he felt a little tug on his jacket. Lisa was staring up at him, wide-eyed and white as a sheet, one hand gripping his coat, the other arm wrapped around his leg firmly. “Can we go home, daddy?” 

  
  
  
  


The city was silent by the time Patrick stumbled into the elevator leading to his flat. The pre-Christmas hustle was finally over and people were in the warm indoors, surrounded by family and candlelight and everything that was nice in the world. He tried not to think about the emptiness awaiting him when he got back to his flat, the silence and the lack of, well, anything.

But it wasn’t empty. 

Patrick had figured it all out in his head, had it all down to hallucinating in some weird fit that was something between an asthma attack, an anxiety attack and a near-death experience. That was the only plausible explanation, the only reason he’d seen some supernatural being holding a fucking train whilst somebody had yanked him and his kid off the tracks. 

Until he saw it standing in his living room. It looked like a man, a short man, with honey-coloured skin and a dark fringe covering half his face. He… they were wearing black clothing and dark eyeliner like some 2005 scene kid who hadn’t got the memo that My Chemical Romance had broken up and Ryan Ross had left Panic! Oh. and the wings. Huge, black, and  just about squeezed into the room. They were loosely folded and shining in the light of the ceiling lamp above. Patrick just stared because there was nothing else he could do. They were beautiful. Really, truly beautiful. “You… you saved my kid, I… thank you.” The angel just shrugged. “Nah, least I could do I suppose. Yanno…” Patrick was transfixed by the little movements the wings kept making. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, you okay?” Patrick nodded because it was all he could manage. He was still 90% certain he was actually dead. Also, when had the angel moved closer? “How’s Lisa, she okay?” Why did he know her name?  _ Because he’s a fucking angel, Patrick, come on… _ there was a steadying hand on his shoulder, bringing him comfort more than anything. “Yeah, she’s fine, she’s…” Patrick looked up and met hot whiskey eyes that swam with worry and concern. Why did they care so much? Why did he matter? Why was this beautiful,  _ beautiful _ creature standing in front of him, in his apartment, holding onto him like… like…

Patrick couldn’t help himself. He surged forward, catching the angel’s full lips with his own, hoping this was a form of gratitude that translated into ethereal language, hoping that that little bit of want in his gut didn’t come from some celestial manipulation or that he wouldn’t burn for kissing an angel or that it was just fear and shock and exhaustion leading him to make very bad choices. The angel kissed back, hungrily, strong arms had already wrapped their way around Patrick’s body, pulling him close. Shit, he wanted to get out of his clothes, he needed to… Patrick tugged off his coat and stepped out of his shoes, gently pushing the creature backwards towards the door to his bedroom in the hope that they would fit in there. 

The door stayed open, both of them were too busy tugging and tearing at clothing until they could claw and bite at naked, fresh skin and stroke and suck and lick and move until Patrick came with a strangled cry, clenching around the angel buried deep inside of him, pulling it over the edge until it was calling his name and toppling forward, almost crushing him below it own body weight. And all Patrick could see were black feathers covering him, protecting him and warming him on a night that felt so much colder than it should.

  
  
  
  
  


Pete was more than grateful that the heater at  _ Mania Ink _ was cranked up to the max. It was a whopping 28 Fahrenheit out and Pete basically carved death on his walk to the studio, wrapped in a zillion layers of hoodies and coats and scarves. The heat hit him as soon as he opened the glass door, the bell over it announcing his arrival to an already-waiting Patrick. He was bent over the reception desk, reading something, his glasses on the tip of his nose and he looked rather fucking cute, Pete could squeal, honestly. He hadn’t seen Patrick since Christmas, figured he probably needed some time to adjust, some time to work through what had happened and he’d let him know when he was ready to go again. “Morning!” He called cheerfully, but was met with little more than a polite smile. “I’ll be over in a minute, yeah? If you wanna, yanno… undress and shit.” Pete wiggled his eyebrows at Patrick, who just turned crimson and directed his focus back to whatever the fuck he was pouring over. Alright then, grumpy day. This was gonna be fun. Pete wandered through to the back, which was empty, so he couldn’t even talk to Travie while he waited for his bitchy artist to show up. He took off his shirt and sat down on the bench, staring at the heavy red curtain as he waited for Patrick to emerge. It took him more than one minute, more like three, but he did eventually wander in, carrying a handful of needles, one of which he opened and put on the gun. Pete lay down and prepared for the pain.  _ Just one more, _ was what he kept telling himself as the machine dug into his back  _ one more time then I’m done _ . 

 

Patrick didn’t speak, just let Pete talk at him and occasionally offered a ‘mh’ or an ‘oh’, but didn’t really reply. He tried to talk about work, about his family dog, about tattoos, even about his last dentist’s appointment, but nothing got him an answer, so he gave up, just lay there in silence and hummed to himself so he had  _ something _ to focus on other than the fucking  _ pain _ . And then, after two hours, it stopped. The buzzing stilled and Pete felt the telltale pressure of ink being wiped off his skin as he let his muscles relax. He’d managed it, he’d made it. His back was done. “Is that it? Am I good to go? Can I m-” 

_ SHIT. _

Pete gasped loudly as his trousers were tugged down and a hand worked between his cheeks… not the ones on his face, either. Fuck what… what was he doing? Was this sanitary? Probably not. “Pa… Patrick, I- ah!” hot, wet spit dribbled down over his hole, spread out by the fingers stroking over and around it and spreading him open and- 

“FUCK, fuck fuck fuck… aaah, fuck…” Patrick’s tongue pressed up against Pete’s ass had him desperately bucking his hips in search of friction,  _ any _ friction. Two strong hands quickly gripped his waist and stopped him from moving, instead eliciting a high whine from Pete who, frankly, was being driven absolutely crazy by the tongue licking and pushing against him teasingly, never quite breaching his body until- “Shit ahhh… Patrick, Patrick, oh God… oh…” Pete wanted to turn around, to see him, to see Patrick licking into him, his tongue working him open. Maybe his eyes would be lidded and heavy, maybe they’d stare at him with an intensity that could black out the sun if he wanted to do so. He couldn’t, though, he was stuck, lying on his stomach, his back throbbing dully as Patrick pushed a finger inside to meet his tongue. It feathered against Pete’s prostate, lightly, ever so lightly, but enough to make him see sparks. He moaned, low and loud, a sound that tore through his whole body as Patrick lapped up every inch of him. He was trying so hard to rub his dick against the bench below, fighting against the hand still gripping his hip loosely to be able to move, just to make it bearable because  _ fuck _ he was gonna explode. 

And then Patrick pushed in a second finger, scissored them, stretched him open, pushed his tongue as deep as it would go, fucked him gently with his mouth and shit,  _ shit _ . “Patrick, I’m… I’m gonna…” Patrick didn’t stop. Pete tried to twist round to see him, but all he caught was a hint of blonde. “Patrick, I’m… I can’t… fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ .” Pete hit his high with a stifled yelp, spilling out over his stomach and the bench and feeling so very sorry for whoever got to lie on this thing next

. His entire body all but collapsed in on itself once Patrick pulled away, every single tense muscle relaxed and Pete lay there in a state of semi-conscious bliss until he felt two hands pulling his hips up carefully. Patrick wiped over his stomach and the bench with something damp and sour-smelling before lowering him back down and wiping the dampness from his ass. Pete wanted to turn onto his back, but he knew he couldn’t, he had to keep the tattoo protected for the next few weeks, so instead, he made himself sit up shakily.

Patrick was perched on a chair opposite him, looking all innocent with his big, blue eyes and his fucking kissable lips, like they hadn’t just been pressed firmly against his ass. He looked a little shaken, like he wasn’t quite there. “You alright?” Pete asked carefully. He noticed how his gaze wasn’t being met, the avoiding glances to the floor and the walls. “Patrick? Are you okay?” He didn’t know if he had a right to know, but… well, it had only been two-maybe-three-dates and that one time he’d saved his life, but it felt pretty serious, to Pete, anyway. “I, uh… Pete, I.. I… I’ve gotta… tell you something…” Uh oh. That was never good. “I… I know we’ve… we’ve not been going out for long or… or anything, but, like… this thing happened and I still feel bad and I don’t know if it’s… because we’re not official, but… but I, I… I slept with somebody else.” Oh.

Yes. That hurt just a bit. More than it should, because he was right, they weren’t official. Two-and-a-half dates. That was all. But fuck, it hurt. “Oh…” Pete said, because Pete had nothing else to say. “Yeah, I… I get if you don’t… wanna see me or… or anything. I just… it was dumb, I was… no, I’m not gonna find excuses, I was… it was my fault.” 

“When?” When? Did it fucking matter when? They weren’t together, he shouldn’t care, it was nothing, people had sex all the time. “On- on Christmas eve.” On Christmas Eve? But… but he was with… he couldn’t have, not on… “Wait, who… who was it?” Patrick turned bright red and mouthed like a fucking goldfish. “I-- it’s gonna sound crazy you… wouldn’t believe me.” Pete had an inkling, actually. “I’ll believe you, who? Mick fucking Jagger?” Patrick shot a half-hearted glare his way before shaking his head. “A… an angel… it was… it was an angel, he-” Oh, poor, stupid, naive Patrick. Pete found himself smiling at him. “I know it sounds… but he saved us and… and… yesh, I’ve gone mad.” 

“Black wings?” Patrick’s head snapped up to him. He had a frown firmly painted on his face. “Really big, shiny black wings? Black bangs? Eyeliner?” 

“How-” 

“Really nice cock?”

“Pete, what the fuck…” Now Pete was smiling to himself. He’d never ever been recognized. Ever. Even once he’d started doing shit like save people out of burning buildings and lift fucking trucks to free animals trapped beneath, it was like when he hid his wings, everybody’s memory of him disappeared, too. It had taken him a while to figure it out, but the lack of news stories surrounding that burning tower block had been something of a giveaway. “Why you?” Patrick was so confused, bless him, “of all the people, why can you remember?”

And then he leaned in for a kiss. Patrick was a little hesitant at first, not really parting his lips, not really showing any willingness, but he let himself sink into it soon enough. “I don’t… don’t understand, why aren’t… why aren’t you mad?” Pete grinned against his mouth and let his wings unfold. He didn’t know how he did it, didn’t know how they turned from ugly scars over his back into the most beautiful and majestic part of his body, he just… he just did it. And then he broke away and waited for Patrick to take in the scene.

And oh boy, did he take it in, with wide eyes and an open mouth. “You… you’re…” Pete nodded. “Can I?” Patrick reached out a hand and gently placed it on the arch of one of the wings, stroking lightly against the soft feathers, like he couldn’t believe they were real, like they’d fall apart beneath his touch. It felt nice. Pete had never had anybody stroke his wings before, but it was good. “See, I thought you knew it was me…” Pete began explaining, “I thought you knew and had just forgotten like everybody else does. I wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Slept with you, But then again… maybe you did know and maybe that’s why you wanted it…” He wasn’t sure Patrick was actually listening, he was way too caught up in combing through his feathers with an expression on his face like a kid who’d just discovered Santa was real. And under his breath he was muttering: “This can’t be happening. This isn’t fucking real.”

  
  


_ Epilogue _

 

“Hnnnnnnnnnnng…. Ughhhh….” 

“Stop squirming, Jesus Christ, you’re the fucking worst!”

“It fucking  _ hurts _ , Pete!” Pete rolled his eyes. “You’re the fucking tattoo artist here, you should know these things!”

“I  _ do _ tattoos, I don’t get them, asshole! There’s a reason I only have five!”

“Six.”

“Whatever, fuck off.” 

“Hold  _ still _ !” Okay, he should have listened to Travie. Patrick was fucking hell to tattoo. Maybe not a good idea for his first try. And maybe he shouldn’t have picked the inside of Patrick’s elbow, either. Patrick’s feet were jiggling like crazy and he kept humming to stop himself from crying. Pete just wished he wouldn’t wince so much, it really wasn’t giving him an easy job  _ at all _ , yet Patrick should be the one to know how hard it was to tattoo a moving subject. “Almost done, keep still, God damn it, Patrick!”

“This was a bad idea, a really fucking bad idea!”

“Yeah, well, it was yours. This is what you get for forgetting our anniversary.” Pete wasn’t mad at all, he’d just taken Patrick out on a date, but the little dude had felt so bad, he’d ridden Pete to oblivion  _ and _ promised to get a tattoo for him. Bit soon, maybe? After only a year? Whatever, Pete had no intentions of ever being with anybody else again. On top of that, Lisa had basically threatened Patrick with never visiting him again if he “got rid of Pete”, so it looked like this arrangement was a permanent one. “You’d better not be tattooing a dick, I swear to fuck, Peter, I will castrate you.” There was something hilarious about pissy Patrick. “I’m not, I promise!” He grumbled like he didn’t  _ quite _ believe him. Whatever, Pete didn’t need him to. 

“Aaaand, there we go!” Pete wiped the excess ink off Patrick’s arm to reveal…

“Wings?” it was the outline of a tiny little set of super-lopsided wings that certainly did not look like they’d been done by a professional, but Pete had done his best to trace Gabe’s design, okay? Besides, the thick, messy lines added a certain personal touch. “Like it?” Pete wasn’t sure he’d want that on his body, but hey, it wasn’t. “Hm…” Patrick twisted and turned his arm a bit, holding it to the light, just to make the inflamation a little more obvious. “I mean, it’s quite possibly the worst tattoo I’ve seen in ten years…” Oh. Harsh. "Your lines are way too fucking thick and they are in no sense of the word symmetrical and I suspect they’re gonna heal as a blob of ink rather than any definable picture-” Okay, okay. Fine. He got it. He hadn’t expected Patrick to love it, but….

“Hey, no, don’t look like that, please.” a hand cupped his face and Pete lifted his eyes to meet Patrick’s loving gaze. “I love it. Really. I love you.” And Pete smiled as he leaned in for a kiss. 

“I love you, too.”


End file.
